


Dream-Sweepers

by fitz_y



Series: Out of the Ash [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Graphic Depicitions of Illness, Graphic Depicitions of Non-consensual Medical Treatment, Minor Character Death, Podfic Available, Reference to Rape (not portrayed), incestuous thoughts without any actual incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 10:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 43,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitz_y/pseuds/fitz_y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The same year Morgana Pendragon was born to an experimental test subject in the labs at Camelot Pharmaceuticals, the company invented a drug that cuts Cerebral Hyperactivity Disorder (CHAD) in half, rendering so-called sorcerers (sufferers of CHAD) incapable of practicing "magic" and therefore no longer default enemies of the United States. Instead, they are patients.<br/>At 23 years old, Morgana and two other illegally unmedicated CHAD sufferers carried out an unsuccessful attempt on the life of Camelot's CEO, Uther Pendragon. Now, ten years later, Morgana's magic stays locked under her skin, a dull itching reminder of the mistakes she once made. Every night she sleeps through prophetic dreams. Every morning she vomits them out as the drugs coursing through her blood scour any lingering memories from her REM cycles. She visits the hospital, her parole officer, and the club where she tends bar. She injects herself with the required barrage of medicines. She keeps her head down and snarls at anyone who approaches with a curious, "Aren't you the Pendragon girl, the one from the trial?" She is done with dreaming.<br/>Until Morgause walks back into her life, pursuing her, whispering in her ear. Until the story begins again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

I still sleep on the right side  
Of the white noise  
Can't leave the scene behind

—“Panic Switch”  
 _The rain is pounding down, bone-soaking dense. Upturned collars and heavy boots offer no protection. Not that Morgana is wearing either. She looks down, unsurprised to see her legs naked below the short hem of a flower-patterned hospital gown, her feet bare on pebbled asphalt, dirt-flecked water streaming by._

_In the distance, a chorus of police sirens blares, drawing nearer._

_Immediately in front of her stands Morgause. Long, sodden curls of blond hair slap wetly against her back. Her eyes rake over Morgana’s shivering body as she strips off her black leather jacket and yanks down the heavy Kevlar vest underneath. Now dressed only in a tanktop and cargo pants, she pushes the vest and jacket at Morgana, shouting something that Morgana cannot understand. Morgana is rooted to the spot, limbs heavy and unmovable._

_Morgause steps closer, shoves Morgana into the vest and jacket, then locks her hand around Morgana’s wrist. She takes off running, yanking Morgana along. They are sprinting; Morgana blinks the pinpricks of rain out of her eyes, grimacing as the pavement scrapes flesh from the soles of her feet. Boots pound behind them, around them. Morgana looks left and right; they are flanked by a platoon of Navy SEALS in combat gear—skin pale, eye sockets empty. Morgana swallows, Morgause’s undead marines are here, too._

_The sirens fill her ears. Somebody is yelling something, an indecipherable order—distorted through a speaker. Morgause digs her short fingernails into the soft flesh at Morgana’s wrist and picks up their pace. Morgana would lag behind, her legs aching with the stress of movement, but Morgause does not let her._

_She doesn’t know when she has ever run this fast. Oxygen, she cannot get enough of it into her desperate lungs._

_Gunshots explode in the air around them. Beside her, two of the marines spin, their automatic rifles popping out a stream of return fire. One of them stumbles and falls; she looks back, sees him jump up, unvanquishable, sees the ring of cop cars, the line of marines between her and the police pistols and spiraling lights, sees a helicopter dangling above them all, blinding her with its beaming eye of light._

_Morgause is yelling something but she can’t make it out. Morgana twists to look ahead again, trying not to fall as she stumbles into a sea of black motorcycles. The marines around them climb on the bikes, motors roar to life. Morgause tosses a helmet at Morgana, shoves on her own helmet, and throws a leg over the only unmanned bike._

_She gestures to Morgana to climb on. She does not want to. What has she gotten into?_

_Gunfire erupts on her left, and one of the marines crumples, his bike clanging to the ground with him._

_Morgana secures her helmet and climbs up to the back, locks her arms around Morgause’s waist, and shuts her eyes. In the blackness, she feels them speeding forward, tilting, flopping from side to side, feels puddles of road water spatter across her knee and thigh. It’s like riding a roller coaster in the dark._

_The gunfire retreats. They tilt and sway, Morgause’s body between her thighs the only solid thing._

_She rests her head on Morgause’s upper back, curved low over the handlebars._

_She opens her eyes, and raises her head to look over Morgause’s shoulder. They’re on a highway—no, a wide bridge. The road is empty except for their motorcycle and the wall of lights and metal in front of them, a barricade of police cars. The marines have vanished. Morgause is barreling towards that hard wall of police cars, not backing down._

_Is she going to try to leap the motorcycle over it? That seems impossible. Yet there’s no way around. Morgana twists to look behind them, the swirling lights of several more police cars follow. There’s no way back._

_The air next to them burns and splits. Morgana’s arm is burning, has been ripped open. She feels Morgause’s taut body go slack, thudding back into her. The bullet has entered her heart, Morgana knows it the instant Morgause’s body hits hers. Morgana is screaming, but she’s the only one who can hear it, the hoarse, desperate sounds locked inside her helmet. They careen sideways into the slick, wet blackness of the road._

_Dying._

///

Morgana woke up screaming, pain shooting up her left leg, her stomach a pendulum under her throat.

“Fuck,” she muttered, as she shoved herself upright and grabbed for the brown bucket by her bedside. 

As bile spewed out of her, and the Ardoran, the dream-sweeping drug in her veins, scrubbed her mind blank, one image flashed behind her retinas, and she reached for the sickeningly familiar picture, clutching it tight, wanting to decipher it. Morgause, blond hair wet, stripping off a leather coat and Kevlar vest.

“Fuck!” she said more loudly. _Fuck fuck fuck. Not Morgause. Anything but her. Please._ Had she believed in God or any higher power, she would have sunk to her knees and prayed as hard as she could. Instead, she ran a hand through her sweat-soaked hair, threw off the damp sheet, and plodded to the bathroom.

///

Two mornings later, an imperious knock startled Morgana from her kitchen-table slump, as she sat, staring into nothing, gulping her way through a second pot of coffee and her fifth cigarette of the morning.

No one knocked at her door. Ever. She had no acquaintances, no friends, no family, no contacts, and the neighbors she sometimes heard thudding up and down the two flights of stairs below her or screaming at each other through her floors had no interest in what went on in her attic apartment.

She slurped her coffee and waited.

The person knocked again, rapping loudly three times.

She stood up and poured herself another cup of coffee. She looked out the open kitchen window at the pigeons gurgling and shitting across the way where they crowded under the shade of an overhanging roof. 

It would stop eventually, they would go away.

But the knocking continued, for a good twenty minutes. 

No calling out, no voice. Just knocking.

Finally, after pouring the dregs of the coffee into her mug, checking to see if she had enough beans left to make a third pot—no—she paced to the apartment door, sipping coffee as she walked. She yanked the door open. 

Leaning casually against the wall, feet crossed at her ankles, was Morgause. 

Morgause’s grin reached to all the way to her dark-brown eyes, eyes that stared at Morgana, taking her in with an intensity and clarity that rushed over her like ice water. She stumbled back, hands suddenly trembling, spilling lukewarm coffee down her tanktop.

“Morgana, I . . .” Morgause was stepping forward, about to cross the threshold into Morgana’s apartment and _no no no_. She slammed the door in her face, and dropped the empty coffee mug. It bounced once on the rug, and rolled under a chair. She shook herself out of her paralysis and sprinted to her bed, practically ripping the hanging that separated her bed from the rest of the apartment.

She dove onto the bed, tugged the pillow over her head, pulled the sheet over her shaking body, curled up into a fetal position on her side, and tried to ignore the insistent knocking. If she had to climb out her window later when she had to leave, she would. But she would _not_ answer that door.

///


	2. Chapter 1

Morgana was late. 

Waiting for her EEG had taken a full two hours. How was anyone supposed to maintain a steady job on this schedule? 

She bounded down the stairs from the elevated train platform two at a time, glanced at her phone—5:51—vaulted down the last three steps and rounded the corner under the trembling bridge. The cars buzzing by on Spring Garden slapped hot, stale air into her face, her bare arms, her neck, doing nothing to cool the sweat trickling down her underarms. A broken sidewalk square, a crushed PBR can, a trampled stalk of ragweed, a used condom, grass browned with heat—her gaze swept over them, following the line between the curb and the sidewalk.

When she heard the quick staccato of heels close behind her, _too close_ , her muscles tensed. She edged to her left, scuffing her heel.

“Morgana.” A voice, deadly soft, whispered past her overheated skin. For ten long years that had not been her name. She flinched, quickening her speed, not looking up.

The click of heels matched her increased pace; Morgana could almost hear the bold swagger in that stride.

“I’m not going away this time. So you might as well stop pretending to ignore me.”

Without glancing to her right, Morgana yanked her phone from her pocket to make a show of checking the time. 5:53.

Across the street the _Do Not Walk_ sign flashed; Morgana hopped over the curb, tossing an angry glare at the turning car that screeched to a halt to let her cross.

The sharp, efficient footsteps by her side mimicked her dash through the intersection.

She turned down Second Street and plowed onward, head down.

“Morgana. You have to talk to me sometime. If I come to your bar tonight, you’ll have to take my order, like every other paying customer. If I come to your apartment tonight, you won’t be able to ignore me again.”

A litany of possible answers unspooled in her mind as she walked.

_Watch me._

_I’ll get Jim the bouncer to throw you out._

_I had nothing to say to you two days ago, and I still have nothing to say to you_.

_Just fuck off back to wherever you came from._

_I’ll lock you out._

_Aren’t you afraid I’ll call the cops on you?_

_You’re still on America’s Most Wanted, doesn’t it scare you to be here?_

Beads of sweat were forming on her upper lip, and she lifted damp fingers to swipe at it. 

She swallowed against her dry throat and finally turned to look at the woman next to her. Her mind went blank when she met that gaze.

“Ten years, Morgause, you let me rot in jail for ten years.” Her voice rang out high and strangled; the slight crack in it made her wince.

Either the heat or her meds must have been frying her brain because _that_ was not what she had wanted to say.

For the briefest of moments, she let herself scan Morgause’s face, framed by sunrise-red hair, too shiny and thin to be anything but a well-made wig. Delicate lines edged her eyes, but that was the only change Morgana noticed in her. The warm patience in her brown eyes, the cleft in her strong chin, the smiling twist of her lips—it all looked just as Morgana remembered, just as she had pictured it night after night.

Morgana snapped her head forward, moving away. Grinding her teeth, she stretched out her stride, stomping at the cracks in the pavement.

“But I’m here now, aren’t I?” Morgause asked smoothly. Too smoothly.

“What do you want this time?” Morgana tried to make her voice casual.

“Just to see you.” 

Her heart was trying to pound its way through her ribcage, but she just quirked an eyebrow sidelong at Morgause.

“Somehow I doubt that,” she drawled.

Morgause smiled, so heart-breakingly sincere. 

Morgana wanted to punch the grin right off her face. 

“Despite that blond hair you’re sporting now, you weren’t hard to find. I just need to talk to you.”

They slowed, staring at each other. Morgana glowering, Morgause putting on what she probably thought was her best harmless look.

“I mean it. You’ll see that eventually. You have to at least let me explain.” Morgause reached towards Morgana with her open palm, as though to cup her cheek. An all-too familiar gesture, one that made something hot and acidic surge in Morgana’s throat—she slapped the hand away before it could reach her face, fingers stinging from the impact.

Before she could think, she was speeding away again, striding down the street, the muscles in her back and shoulders tensing into a rod, holding her up. She wouldn’t look back. Not now. Not after all she’d been through.

She yanked her phone from her pocket. 5:57.

Barely registering the dank, rotten smell of the dumpster as she circled around the building, Morgana flung open the back door to the 700 Club. 

Joey looked up from where he was pouring tequila into a long line of shot glasses. “Morgan, you’re late,” he hollered over the din of a Saturday night gearing up.

///

Lounging in a beat-up leather recliner that was cracked around the edges and duct-taped back together, Morgause sipped her whisky—Maker’s Mark, two fingers, neat—and watched Morgana all night. 

And the next night. 

And the following one. 

And every night for the rest of the week.

Morgana pointedly ignored her, leaving Joey to pour her drinks that were much too posh for the yellowing drapes and sagging couches of the crowded hipster dance club. Sometimes, caught up in movements that required all her attention but little thought—remembering lists of drink orders, wiping down counters, pocketing tips, showing off her ass as she bent down to scoop ice, pulling fresh pints, calling out to customers trying to shove their way to the front of the bar, washing glasses, dishing out cutting remarks flirtatiously—she forgot that Morgause was there, a quiet threat in the back of the pulsing club. She forgot the gravitational pull she felt towards that quiet shadowy corner where she sprawled easily, feigning harmlessness. She forgot the words that had echoed in her mind for the past week. _You have to at least let me explain._ And then she would swing around to grab a rocks glass or lean closer to a customer to hear his order, and she’d catch Morgause’s red wig out of the corner of her eye. A flare. A presence. Her gut would clench, and she’d bite down on her lip or cheek. 

She was not going to be taken in again.

///

Mondays were her day off. Days off should mean sleeping til noon, chain-smoking in her underwear at the kitchen table, channel flipping mindlessly for hours, eating cookie dough ice cream for lunch. Or, if Morgana were the person she used to be, they should have meant ticking party invites off a list, flitting from store to store and from mall to mall all afternoon, coming home with three new pairs of Italian leather boots, driving into Midtown for lunch, valet parking for fifty dollars an hour, booking the family jet.

But Mondays meant none of these things. 

Mondays meant sitting extra long hours in the harsh fluorescent lights of waiting rooms, undressing and dressing multiple times, slurping bad coffee in the futile hopes that the caffeine would dull her headache, refusing to meet Dr. Bayard’s squinty eyes, getting prodded with needles, lying under whirring machines, being told to hold still, being presented to Bayard’s interns as his most high-profile and interesting case. 

Mondays sucked.

Morgana sat on a bench across the street from the main hospital entrance, nibbling on a roast beef sandwich from a food truck. There was no high drama across the way; only the occasional elderly woman migrating towards the entrance with her walker. Nothing to watch today, just the unbearably sticky heat clinging to her skin.

Someone settled on the bench next to her, and she whirled around, clutching her roast beef, ready to make the usual excuses and run for it. _No, you’re looking for someone else. Yes, the resemblance is uncanny isn’t it? Ha, you think I look like her? I’ll take that as a compliment, she was featured in People Magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful People. Twice._

The excuses dried up when she saw Morgause’s easy smile and the flame-red hair of her wig. Morgause was holding out a grande iced coffee, like it was the most natural thing, like they had planned a date. She was wearing a sleek, scoop-necked black dress that hit just below her thighs. “Just the way you like it. It’s gotta be better than that hospital coffee you’ve probably been drinking all morning.”

It looked good, it really did: cup beaded with moisture, a sprinkling of nutmeg under the lid.

Morgana shook her head, set her jaw and rose from the bench, turning her back on Morgause. About to walk away, she heard Morgause’s soft voice.

“Those horrible cramps in your legs that wake you up at night, did you know they’re a side effect of the Ardoran? The longer you keep taking Ardoran, the stronger the cramps will become until you lose feeling in your legs completely. You’re looking at complete lower-body paralysis within three years’ time. It can even lead to death. It’s one of the side effects of Ardoran.”

Morgana stood still, baked in the scorching sun. She shrugged, not saying anything, not turning around. 

“Do you know that the inhuman tests they’re putting you through every day will probably kill you before the Ardoran does?”

Morgana still did not turn. “I’ve heard lines like these from you before, Morgause. I believe you, all right, I just don’t care anymore.” 

She was walking away when one more well-aimed barb sunk under her skin. 

“Ever since I learned that we’re not half-sisters, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how desperately I want you.”

Morgana stilled.

“How’s that for a new line? That’s something I haven’t been able to admit until now.”

Morgause’s voice, gentle and deadly, drew closer, but Morgana kept her back to her.

“You still want it, too, don’t you? You could never stand that I was with Cenred and not you. Don’t think I haven’t forgotten that night you told me you wanted me, and you didn’t care even if we did learn that we were related.” There was a light touch on her shoulder; Morgana tensed. 

“You said you’d do anything,” Morgause purred, too close. “You told me all the things you wanted to do with me, starting with . . .”

“I was drunk, stupid, and young,” Morgana snarled, turning her head to glare at Morgause. “Besides that was over ten years ago. People’s feelings change in ten years. Especially when they’re ten years spent _in jail_ , you stupid asshole.”

Morgana moved to walk away because that was the only thing she was good at anymore. But Morgause clamped a hand around her upper arm.

Morgana stared at the short nails digging into her bare skin, and then glanced up and found herself caught in Morgause’s soft gaze. “I see something can still get a rise out of you,” Morgause whispered, peering at Morgana like she could eventually figure her out if she just looked long enough. 

Morgana swallowed.

“What did they do to you, Morgana? I’ve watched you for so long now, and you look dead. Positively dead inside. Is this the life you wanted?” She cocked her head to the side, exposing her long throat.

With that earnest, brown-eyed gaze locked on her, Morgana felt something chip and crack inside her, something tough and fossilized that she’d spent years developing. This just wouldn’t do. 

Morgana jerked her arm out of Morgause’s grasp. “This is the life I’ve got. And you lost the right to care about it when you abandoned me to a SWAT team. If I see you again, I’m going to call the FBI’s anonymous tip line and report you.” 

“I didn’t abandon you to that SWAT team. When are you going to at least let me explain?”

“There’s nothing to explain,” Morgana responded tonelessly. “I took the fall for your crime.” She paused. “There’s something you should know about me, Morgause. Something I learned while doing time. I stick by what I say now. I make good on my threats. A person’s word is only as good as her ability to act on it. I’ve got the FBI anonymous tip line in my cell phone, and I _will_ call it if I ever see you again.”

Morgause narrowed her eyes and dropped her hand.

 _Good, she gets it._ Why did that thought make her feel so hollow? Morgana stalked away.

“Did you even watch the news last night?” Morgause called after her. “The Morgana Pendragon I knew would never have stood for what Camelot Pharmaceuticals plans to do. Never!”

Morgana spun, continuing to walk backwards as she called out, “She’s dead. I’m Morgan Lafayette now.”

“Lafayette. LeFay. If that’s your last name, then the least you can do is live up to the mother who you’re taking it from.”

 

Morgana only had three more appointments to get through before the crowded, stinking rush-hour subway ride away from here. She took deep breaths as she walked away, wincing at the spiking pain under her eyebrows and across her scalp. She entered the chilled hospital. Three more, she could do that.

In the waiting room, the TV blared with news reporters trying to inflect some kind of emotion into their voices. Morgana signed herself in on the chart and slunk to a free chair in the corner. Of the ten other patients waiting, only a young boy looked up to meet her gaze. Wide blue eyes under a riot of yellow curls scanned her quickly before darting back to his mother’s face. He tugged on his mother’s hand and struggled to lean closer and whisper in her ear. The mother ruffled his hair, bit her lip, and trained her gaze on the door that led back to the doctor’s office. 

Most of the others in the waiting room had their faces shielded by smartphones or e-readers, their ears stuffed with iPod buds. Some of them Morgana saw every week—the shaggy-haired teenage boy in the Beatles tee, the twenty-something business woman in the prim suit who always sat in the waiting room tapping her long nails against the screen of her iPhone, the young woman in pressed jeans typing at her laptop, the salt-and-pepper-haired man who always hid his face behind a fold-out newspaper. 

She pulled out her well-worn copy of _Fingersmith_. But today, she just stared at the words on the page as the TV droned, high on its perch above them all. 

_You said you’d do anything._ Of course Morgause had to throw that night back in her face. She frowned and pressed her hand to the thudding at her temple. 

New Year’s Eve in Vancouver in Morgause’s chic apartment, long after they had emptied the last bottle of champagne and Morgana had declared the worst year in the history of forever to be over, she had swayed on the couch and leaned in, burying her face in Morgause’s hair, content to stay there. Sneaking her arms around Morgause’s waist, she’d hugged her strength close, tugged her until her shoulder pressed against Morgana’s breastbone. 

“Your hair smells like rain,” she had whispered, lips hot against Morgause’s ear.

Morgause pressed a palm over Morgana’s thigh, and they sat like that for a long time as the party whirled around them and everything else spun away—everything from the past fall, Gwen’s leaving her for Arthur, Uther’s demands, Gaius’s new tests, her suspension from work, her three-month medicated and electro-shock-filled blur of a stay at the CHAD facility, everything that had left Morgana alone, isolated in the landscape of her life. Alone except for Morgause.

“I want you,” she said, still speaking softly into Morgause’s hair. “Sometimes I think it doesn’t matter that we might be half-sisters.” She braced a firm hand on Morgause’s hip when the other woman moved to turn. “No, don’t move.” It would be easier to say if she didn’t have to see her all-knowing stare. Morgana nuzzled against the soft strands tickling her nose and cheeks. “I’ll do anything, Morgause. Let me show you how much I want you.” 

Morgause leaned back into the couch and gently removed her hand from Morgana’s thigh. “Darling,” her voice low enough that no one could track their conversation, “I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

She had unhooked herself from Morgana’s embrace and stood up, turning to watch Morgana, to pat her on the cheek like some pitiful child, and had then walked over to the kitchen where Cenred stood watching them.

And that had been that. 

The low drone of the TV spiked louder, and Morgana glanced up to notice the mother of the curly-haired boy standing on her tiptoes to turn up the volume. Arthur Pendragon, posed behind a messy bouquet of microphones, framed by the angular CP logo, stared into the camera with that exaggerated stare of studied, thoughtful concern as he gestured and spoke. Morgana wanted to spit.

“. . . preliminary clinical trials,” he concluded. 

He nodded at an off-camera journalist.

“Critics are arguing that administering this new drug will be a burden on our already overtaxed health care system.”

Composed, Arthur shook his head. “It will actually relieve many health care providers from many of their duties. Once Zillaxia hits the market in six months, sufferers of CHAD will still have to be closely monitored, but they will no longer have to report for weekly EEGs and blood work. One monthly visit for a Zillaxia injection and an EEG is much cheaper than four trips a month for EEGs. This will save the health care system millions of dollars, and still ensure that those who suffer from CHAD are getting the care they need.”

He gestured to someone else off camera.

“Mr. Pendragon, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this is a matter of personal, national, and even international security. The public needs to know that you can guarantee that a drug administered only once a month will be effective enough to replace a daily injection.”

He nodded. “We at Camelot Pharmaceuticals share your concern. Believe me, we do. Our number one goal is to keep American citizens safe from threats at home. Given the recent uprisings of unmedicated CHAD sufferers in France and Indonesia, not to mention the current, unrecognized Argentinean and Romanian governments, our number one concern is keeping our CHAD sufferers medicated, normalized, and functioning. This drug has been in development for over ten years now. I can assure you that we would not have released it unless we were absolutely certain it would be effective. And it works. I’ve personally witnessed this, after having spoken with both scientists and test subjects from the clinical trials. Furthermore, in negotiation with NIH, NIJ, and President Tregor, we’ve decided that any CHAD sufferers who have previously been identified as posing a threat to the state will remain under surveillance in CHAD institutions and continue to be monitored weekly, or in some cases, even daily. The point is that the public will be able to rest easier, knowing that we can now _guarantee_ that all CHAD sufferers will be medicated. There’s no chance that someone will forget to inject himself two mornings in a row or that someone else forgets to pick up her medications at the drug store. All treatments will be administered by health care professionals who report to the state. It’s the improvement that Congress has been clamoring after for years. It’s the improvement that my father wished most for his whole life. I’m honored to continue his legacy and be able to say that with the release of Zillaxia, Camelot and America will prove to once again be on the forefront of humane behavioral control for CHAD sufferers.”

Morgana held her book up to her face, preventing herself from watching any more. She might vomit if she had to stare at Arthur’s smug face any longer. Of course he’d bring Uther into it; he played the grieving son so prettily.

Another polite questioning voice cut through her attempts to read. “But surely you have concerns about doctors accepting bribes. Ever since the Morgana Pendragon trial the public has a right to worry that all health care providers are not as upstanding as they should be.”

Morgana sunk deeper in her hard chair.

Composed and low, Arthur’s voice boomed through the room. “The Pendragon trial was eleven years ago. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that since then, the criminal justice system has implemented harsher checks and balances on doctors and other health care providers. You know as well as I do that after the spate of arrests in the early 90s, there have been fewer and fewer arrests of doctors for bribery. But,” he paused and she imagined him shrugging, “I work in pharmaceuticals, not law enforcement. In two days, President Catrina Tregor and the head of national security, Jonas White, will be holding their own press conference about the effects of Zillixia on national and international security. They will be better able to answer your law enforcement questions. We have time for one more question.”

“Mr. Pendragon, is it true that your wife, who used to be one of the head researchers at Camelot Pharmaceuticals, has not only filed for divorce but has also quit her job, and threatened to spill Camelot’s secrets?”

Morgana dropped her book to her lap, looking up into the mask that instantly closed down Arthur’s face.

The blond-haired boy’s mother gasped. 

“Yes, Dr. Smith has left Camelot Pharmaceuticals. We have nothing to hide; there are no dark secrets to spill. I’m not at liberty to discuss her current employment, and my personal life has nothing to do with this press conference.”

He glanced at someone behind him. “That will be all.” A group of tall, suited men swarmed him, his blond head disappearing among them as they walked offstage. Morgana picked out Merlin Emrys’s shock of black hair and slender form at the back of the group, his eyes sweeping the space around Arthur.

Morgana looked around to notice that everyone in the waiting room was staring at the screen, earbuds out, some of their mouths open. 

The mother noticed, too, and said to the room at large, “Well I, for one, think this sounds like an improvement. I won’t miss the weekly hospital visits.”

A few people murmured in response.

Morgana rolled her eyes and watched her son cave in on himself, growing smaller in the chair.

Gwen had left him? Morgana really did not need to be thinking about Gwen right now, hot on the heels of Morgause’s smoke-and-mirrors appearance. 

_It’s just not logical, Morgana. How can this woman know so much about you? What are her credentials? What is she even doing here?_ Smelling like sunscreen and salt from the bay and sunshine, Gwen had lain in bed and whispered her worries into Morgana’s skin, lips playing over her ear. 

Looking up from where she was lying in the grass, curls wet with nighttime dew, light from the fire pit danced over her skin, she frowned at Morgana. _You’re going in? Don’t tell me you’re going to spend another evening combing through dusty books with that woman again._ She rolled over in the grass, putting her back to Morgana and propping herself up to watch Lancelot plucking at his guitar and chatting with Merlin.

Arthur’s red Porsche Targa parked in front of Gwen’s dorm building. Gwen in a short black dress, hair pinned tightly back, clearly trying to look older than her eighteen years, eyes scanning the doorway, waiting for someone. _No, there’s absolutely no chance you and I can get back together. I mean what I said last weekend. It’s felt over between us for a long time. . . . Yes, I’m with someone else now._

Just then the heavy door to the doctor’s office swung open and a nurse strode out. “Ms. Lafayette,” she called. Morgana scooped up her purse and hurried to follow her.

///

Morgana sat on her roof window ledge as the sun melted into the sweltering evening. There seemed to be no end to the heatwave. No rain, no dipping of the 100-degree daily temperatures. She tipped back her head, finishing the last of her lukewarm IPA, and chased it with a deep drag of her unfiltered cigarette. She couldn’t sleep in tomorrow, but after her ten-o’clock appointment at the hospital she could at least slink off to the public library and hide among air conditioning and reference books. She liked the smooth quiet, the arched ceilings, high enough to hold her thoughts, the sunny, frozen corner where she could curl up on the ratty chair next to the floor-to-ceiling window and watch the occasional tourist approach the silver hot dog truck parked on the corner. 

She sighed and, bracing her hand against the window frame to hold herself in place, leaned out over the roofs and streets, gazing on the shingles and wood, the sagging latticed mazes, the roof decks huddled together over tired South Philadelphia houses. She let the antiseptic smell of the hospital and the hard, lined gaze of Dr. Bayard slip off her, tumble down to the trash-strewn street three stories below.

She inhaled and checked her phone, thumbing through her contact list. She’d programmed the FBI anonymous tip number in there as soon as she’d locked the apartment door behind her, just as she had promised. She had learned to keep her promises, and if she had to cut Morgause, she would cut her. Her hand shook—just the slightest tremble—as she pocketed her phone and reached behind her into her apartment for another bottle. One more tonight would put her at three beers—her hard limit.

She didn’t want to think about how Morgause’s eyes still crinkled at the edges, about how her smile felt like the warmest thing Morgana had felt in years. She popped the top off her beer bottle and gulped down the bitter, room-temperature liquid. 

The image of Morgause, naked, the riot of her blond curls over the long expanse of her tan back as she sunbathed by the pool of their sprawling vacation home in Newport, RI, flashed into Morgana’s mind. Morgana had practically dropped her mug of coffee the first summer morning she had stumbled out from the breakfast nook to the pool to find Morgause spread out naked on a towel. 

“I know mornings aren’t the easiest time for you, Morgana, what with your meds and all. The last thing I would ever want is to disturb you, so I came out here to enjoy the sun.” Morgause had smiled. 

It hadn’t taken long that summer for Morgause’s sunbathing to become as familiar a sight at their vacation home as the purple walls of hydrangeas enclosing the pool or the twirls of honeysuckle climbing up the portico. 

She remembered the way Morgause had cocked her head and looked steadily at her the day Morgana had asked her to move in for the rest of the summer. She had stammered, trying to keep her voice even, “You might as well stay here, with us. . . . I mean you’ve been here every day sorting through boxes in the attic, and you’re staying so far away in Warwick, you might as well save yourself the trip, and sleep here. We’ve got more than enough room, five empty bedrooms plus the guest house. I mean there’s no reason for you not to stay. I mean for your research and all. It’d help your research for your Master’s thesis on Camelot Pharm, right? God knows we’ve got the space.” And how she’d felt the blush hot on her neck, and that wasn’t her, she _never_ blushed, always calm and collected. 

Morgause had smiled—so graciously, so adult—and nodded. “I’d love to join you and Gwen and Arthur in the house. It would make my research so much easier.”

And then, the first evening after Morgause had moved in, the four of them had flitted from one tourist bar to another, as if they’d always been friends. 

High on fruity cocktails and independence, Morgana had practically skipped up the sandy drive to their house, tugging Morgause by the wrist. “C’mon, you’re going to love our view of the water at night. Arthur will start a bonfire in the pit. We can roast marshmallows and wait for the sun to rise.”

Morgause’s responding laugh had tasted like intrigue, thick in the air between them. 

Gwen and Arthur had paced close behind, giggling like the teenagers they were. 

She spun on her heel. “C’mon, kids, keep up!” she hollered, tightening her hold on Morgause, stroking her thumb over the smooth flesh at the inside of her wrist.

“Oh, now that my girlfriend’s graduated college, she thinks she gets to call us kids,” Gwen called back to her. 

“Damn straight!” Morgana tossed her hair over her shoulder and laughed, then, as Gwen rushed her, flip-flops slapping on the pavement, thin sundress hugging her curves. Morgana dropped Morgause’s hand, holding her arms in front of her as Gwen tackled her, tickling her, roaming over her ribs, over the soft spots up by her armpits, relentlessly using her knowledge of Morgana’s body to make her catch her breath and stumble and finally cry mercy. Gwen crashed against her, tasting like lip gloss and strawberry daiquiris as she claimed Morgana’s mouth sloppily in front of everyone.

Every inch of space on Morgana’s skin had come drunkenly alive in that moment.

Morgana cursed, leaned out and opened her hand, letting the now-empty beer bottle plummet to the alley below. She flicked the butt of a cigarette after it, kicking her feet in the air as she watched the ember arc downwards in a line of fire. It was time for her evening injections of meds.

///

The next three days passed like water dripping from a tap: unvarying, with an infuriatingly steady rhythm, and just slow enough to drive one mad. Life took place inside the walls of the hospital, of her apartment, of the subway, of the club. Outside, the summer broiled, asphalt melted, and the smell of piss permeated the air. Morgana heard nothing more from Morgause; she could almost pretend that she had never seen her.

She struggled awake from her restless sleep every morning, leg and arm muscles throbbing, head pulsing, and stomach reeling. Some mornings she walked the few feet to bathroom, some she crawled on all fours, and on other days, she didn’t even make it to the toilet before the dreams and the pain vomited out of her, and she collapsed on the floor as her stomach turned inside out and spewed bile up her throat. That was why she kept a bucket by the bed. Morgause was right about one thing—every year Morgana stayed on Ardoran, the battle the drug fought with her body got bloodier and more brutal.

The drugs did not block the dreams. The doctors had yet to figure out a way to prevent all REM sleep without turning the patient into a suicidal, hallucinating zombie within three weeks. Her particular drug cocktail included general magic-blockers that stopped basic magic spells, fire-suppressants to quell access to her element, and dream-sweepers. Arodran was the strongest dream-sweeper on the market, and she injected it into her blood every morning. The powerful mind-wiping drug then raged through her mind like a prairie fire, burning up recollections from dreams. It also raked her insides into a coal-hot frenzy, triple-knotting her stomach and guts. 

It didn’t quite work as well as the hot shots at Camelot Pharmaceuticals clearly thought it did, and sometimes as she hugged the brown bucket to her chest, or as she moaned and stared at the dark stains at the bottom of her toilet, as she waited for her stomach to empty itself, an image or a word would flash through her vision, literally blocking everything else in sight, and then she’d wrench forward and vomit out the rest of the night. 

But those glimpses that she recalled directly after waking always stayed with her. They were the only fragments of her magic she was allowed to keep, and she folded them up and tucked them away deep inside.

///

That Friday morning, Morgana lay trembling in the middle of her room, her nightshirt soaked through with dank sweat, cradling the bucket in her lap. She was waiting for the acidic taste in her mouth that told her it was coming when her muscles tensed up, and she remembered Morgause’s naked body, the smooth texture of her skin under Morgana’s hands and mouth. The visceral memory of their bodies sliding over each other slammed into her. She startled and hunched forward, vomiting quietly into the bucket. 

“Fuck,” she whispered shakily, putting down the bucket and running a hand through her sweaty bangs. She stumbled to her small, cluttered bathroom and splashed water over her face, scrubbed at her teeth, rinsed with Listerine, and then stared at her ghostly visage in the mirror. Even under the dyed blond hair that was lighter than her natural dark brown, her skin looked positively translucent. 

“No, that was not the future,” she said firmly, looking herself in the eye. “ _That_ is not how it’s going to play out. Absolutely not. That dream was simply a result of the fact that you haven’t gotten laid in years. Fuck prophecy.”

She took her hair out from its short pigtails, and brushed it out with hard strokes. Then she turned on the shower, lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, and sucked it down as she stripped off her shirt and waited for the water to warm up, shivering as the sweat cooled on her body.

She stayed in the shower too long, staring blankly at the cracked green and blue tile, not thinking of Morgause sunbathing, or Morgause skinny-dipping in the bay at night, diving naked off the pier from their beach with a loose laugh, or Morgause as she’d become that winter, once she’d met Cenred, the way she’d settled her fingers like a claw around the back of his neck, holding him off as he strained to kiss her, smiling ferally at him. “You’ve got to earn a kiss,” she’d taunted him. Not thinking about the way Gwen had said Morgause’s name by the end of that summer, with a tight frown. Not thinking about the accusations Gwen had quietly laid before her, the soft ultimatum that had broken them that autumn. 

The water had gone cold, and Morgana had a 9:30 appointment with her parole officer that she was already late for. She would have to skip her morning coffee.

///

“Morgan,” Judith smiled that tight, harried smile as she ushered her into her office. “I’ve got a 10:00 appointment, so we’ll have to keep this short. Sit down.” She gestured to the chair by her desk, where it seemed to be high tide for files. 

Morgana liked Judith’s no-nonsense simplicity, the fact that when she asked how Morgana was doing, she actually seemed to care, and the tight curls of her black hair—those reminded her of Gwen. 

Today she was dressed for court, wearing a smart seersucker pants-suit with a white silk camisole that flared low over her dusky skin, so when she bent over her desk to fish out Morgana’s file, Morgana’s eyes were drawn to the round curve of her breasts. 

Flipping pages, Judith perched on the only empty corner of her desk. “Everything looks good, Morgan. Your chip tracker is still functioning well, you haven’t gone outside the permissible radius at all.” Morgana flinched and tried not to think of the electronic chip radiating a signal from deep inside her brain.

“Also, I’ve spoken with Joey at the 700 Club, and he had a glowing report about you. Says your work is positively exemplary. I think the boy might be a bit sweet on you,” she added as an afterthought as she scanned another page without looking at Morgana. 

“Well, he’s barking up the wrong tree, then,” Morgana said gruffly, causing Judith to look up and meet her gaze. “Besides, I wonder how he’d really feel about me if he knew the truth about who I am. He just hasn’t watched the news in fifteen years. That’s the only reason he never caught on.”

Judith lay down the file and smiled. “But, tell me, how are you, Morgan?”

Morgana shrugged and bit her lip. Now would be the moment to mention Morgause, one of America’s Most Wanted. “All right, I guess.”

“Are the medications still taking a lot out of you?” she asked gently.

“They always do.”

“You do know that the government is going to want you to go on Zillaxia when it comes out in six months. I’ve already spoken with your CHAD controller about this.”

“Dr. Bayard mentioned it.”

“What else did he tell you about it?” 

“Oh, the usual, that it won’t mean any fewer hospital visits for me, what with my being a menace to society and all.”

Judith smiled sympathetically. “You were on the list of stipulated offenders who have to still receive close monitoring.”

“Of course,” Morgana bit out.

“Morgan,” she paused, reached out, brushing her fingertips over the fist Morgana was making in her lap. Morgana wondered, not for the first time, if Judith was gay, if she was single. Not that she needed to live through the experience of getting turned down by her parole officer. “You’re doing really well. You’re amazing, really, given . . . everything, but are you sure you wouldn’t be doing even better with some counseling? Dr. Bayard tells me he’s advised personal therapy several times now and you keep turning him down, refusing to take his referrals.”

Morgana pulled her hand out of her lap, balled in a fist at her side. “If I’m required to go to therapy, I’ll do it. If it’s prescribed by Dr. Bayard or you say it’s some stipulation of my parole or whatever, fine, but if I have any choice in the matter, then I’d rather not.”

“Why not?” 

“Because I don’t see how talking about everything will make anything better. Nothing’s going to change.”

“You can’t know that until you try.”

“No, I do know that,” Morgana said flatly.

“How can you be so sure therapy won’t help?” Judith’s voice was unusually gentle.

“If I go to therapy, will it mean I’ll get to have even just one less EEG a week? Will it mean that I can avoid coming here every other week? Will it save me one damn subway ride to the hospital? Will it stop me from waking up at night with horrible leg cramps that make me want to shoot off my own foot? Will it mean I don’t puke my guts up every morning? Will it save me from walking around with headaches that feel like they’re splitting my skull in two? Will it prevent people from recognizing me on the street, pointing and whispering behind their hands, or, walking by me and spitting on the ground, or even worse in my face? Will it stop the crazies from coming up and asking for my goddamn autograph? Will it?”

“You know it won’t,” Judith said simply, meeting Morgana’s gaze unwaveringly. “But it might help you change how deeply all those things hurt.”

“How the hell would that be possible?” Morgana quirked an eyebrow.

“Look, indulge my touchy-feely-ness here for a moment.” Morgana would indulge her touchy-feely-ness any day if that actually meant she got to touch her. But this bullshit was different. “Things are what they are, Morgan. You can’t change them.”

Something hot flared up in her chest. “You think I don’t know that? _That_ is the only thing I do know any more. That I have no control. That I have nothing.”

“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying. It doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Things are what they are, but you have control over what you do. You _do_ have control, control over your own reactions, over your decisions. It doesn’t have to hurt when people ask you for your autograph.”

Morgana shook her head, suddenly and painfully disappointed in Judith. “You’re saying that it’s all in my mind, that I can just stop wanting it to hurt and it won’t anymore?”

“No,” Judith paused, “No, and yes. Look, I’m not a therapist. But maybe you need someone to listen, someone to help you work through what you’re feeling.”

“I know what I’m feeling, thank you very much. And what do you know anyway? You sit here and rifle through files and call to make sure all your criminals are well behaved. What do you know about what it’s like to walk around being one?”

Judith shook her head, held up her hands, and stood. “I don’t know, Morgan. I don’t know the first thing about what it’s like to spend a day in your shoes.”

That took the wind out of Morgana’s sails. She slumped back in her chair. Judith picked up the file again. 

“I will note in my file again that I recommended voluntary personal psychotherapy and that you turned it down. And I will make sure that my superiors read the glowing reports from both Dr. Bayard and your boss, Joey.”

“Thank you, Judith.” Morgana couldn’t look at her again. “Am I free to go?”

“Yes, you are. But Morgan . . .”

Morgana trained her eyes on the closed door. “Yes?” She inhaled sharply.

“Is everything all right? You seem on edge this week.”

Morgana thought of Morgause’s fire-red wig, of her patient smile just a fraction away from being smug.

“Yes,” she said, still not meeting her gaze.

“All right. Make an appointment with the secretary. I’ll see you in two weeks.”

Morgana nodded curtly and fled.

///

The ice-cold air-conditioning in the public library gave her goosebumps when she walked in after scarfing down a burger and fries for lunch. It made the fine hair on her arms stand on end and froze the sweat trickling down her forehead. Finding her usual corner deserted, Morgana pulled out _Fingersmith_ and curled her knees to her chest. 

She’d been stupidly close to actually asking Judith out on a date until she’d gone all caring on her. Maybe it was time for Morgana to try to pick somebody up at a bar, a drunken, barely-satisfying fumble followed by a quick exit. 

She closed her book with a huff. Today, Sue’s and Maud’s angst did not draw her in like it usually did. It was too much betrayal to get past, really. How either one could ever forgive the other was beyond her understanding. The book fell to her lap as she stared out the window, watching a group of kids amble up to the hotdog cart. She remembered the feel of Morgause’s body under her skin from her dream. She pressed the heel of her palms over her eyes, blocking out the memory of Morgause’s body, of her hair, of her soft voice, of the way her hand cupped Morgana’s cheek. Ten years in prison had taught her to chisel away her thoughts into the here and now. It had taught her to see what was in front of her, and around her, to focus on the taste of the food in her mouth, the feel of the bed under her, the scowls of the people around her. In order to get through the day, she’d done away with the woman she used to be, the expectations that used to buzz in her head. She wanted nothing more than to slink through her day, unnoticed and irrelevant, with a quiet mind and quiet heart.

Damn Morgause. 

Morgana packed her book into her bag and rose to leave. The frozen library was too full of ghosts today for her.

///


	3. Chapter 2

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Morgana muttered aloud as she kicked at a squashed Bud Light can. It skittered across the fractured sidewalk, the tinny sound loud in the empty, humid night. Every step of her boots against the pavement unleashed a spiking jolt through her entire body. Stupid to go out with Joey and the boys for drinks at that hole-in-the-wall after-hours club. Stupid to push her three-drink hard limit. Stupid to believe she still had the finesse to pick a girl up. Stupid to hope the girl wouldn’t recognize her. Stupid to think she could miss her nightly meds by two hours and still make it home.

A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she stumbled, clutching at a nearby telephone pole. The walk from the subway had never felt so long. 

The meds were bad, but missing a dose was worse. Her brain felt like it was shrinking away from the walls of her head, tightening painfully.

Isolde, she had said her name was. Her hair was a tawny blonde, braided over one shoulder, as Morgause’s had sometimes been. She had leaned into Morgana’s space and run a finger up and down her forearm. “Morgan, that’s an interesting name, a strong name. Do I . . . do I know you from somewhere?” Morgana had shrugged, entangled her fingers with Isolde’s, and done her best impression of wide-eyed innocence. But moments later, the space between them snapped as Isolde straightened, leaned away, shut down a look of terror fleeting over her features, and excused herself for the bathroom. Morgana had let Joey order her another drink, with only the minimal amount of ribbing about her new friend, and waited hopefully. But Isolde never returned. Would Isolde be calling her friends, telling them how she had narrowly escaped a one-night stand with the century’s most infamous would-be murderer? 

The headache had tightened and the shakiness had increased to a seven on the Richter scale by the time Morgana reached her apartment door. She fumbled the keys three times before she could open it. 

She pressed a fist hard against her temple as if she could push away the headache that had settled there. Stumbling into her darkened apartment, she groped for the light and knocked the door shut with a bump of her hip. Just before her unsteady fingers connected with the light switch, a wall of air slammed into her. She was shoved hard against the closed door; the door knob stabbed into her lower back. 

A firework of light erupted off to her left and revealed Morgause, fingers outstretched toward her, lips rounding over illegal words, grim determination carved into her face like etchings on a stone.

Later, Morgana would attribute the fact that Morgause got the jump on her to the blinding pain under her skull and the woozy shakes ricocheting through her body. In the moment she saw Morgause, though, she just yelped—a high-pitched bark of a sound—and stared. The crimson-amber light that bubbled and sparked above Morgause faded as Morgause whispered a single syllable and all the electric lights in the room burst on with a sharp buzzing. 

Morgana tasted the earthy bite of magic whirling in the air and wanted to sob. It had been ten years since she’d last felt the purr of magic around her skin, since she’d last felt the corresponding uptick in her own heartbeat, the way her magic leaned into others’, yearning to join it. Pinned against the door, a full-body tremble ran through her, as if whatever frayed strands of her magic still conscious enough to move were trying to explode out of her body. 

Barely ten seconds had passed since Morgana had stepped into the apartment. Morgause was striding over to Morgana’s immobilized form, cupping her cheek—fingers soft and careful on her skin—scanning her face.

Wig gone, she looked as Morgana remembered her, glistening curly blonde hair like a halo around her serious features.

“I didn’t want to do it like this, Morgana. But I will be heard, at any cost.”

Morgana swallowed the bile rising in her throat. The smothered remnants of magic in her body were thrashing in her gut, straining to join Morgause, to battle her. Her body struggled against the magic, wanting to cave in on itself, to double over, to implode. But Morgause’s magic locked her firmly in place: hands nailed in a T-form, legs strapped together by invisible bonds, helpless. 

As the struggling inside her lessened fractionally, Morgana opened her mouth to speak, insults and accusations at the ready in her throat. But she inhale deeply and thought better of it. What was the point anyway? Weren’t they beyond reasoning and arguing now? Morgana’s magic was uselessly chained, her drug-addicted body pushed to its physical limit. She had no way to fight Morgause. 

She slumped against the door, lightheaded. “Obviously you have some plan here. What do you want?”

“Oh, Morgana,” Morgause’s dark eyes were unusually soft, “ _what have they done to you_?” She stroked her thumb over Morgana’s cheekbone. “You used to be so bright, so bright that sometimes I had to shield my eyes just to look at you. What have they done?”

There was nothing to say to that, so Morgana remained silent.

“I refuse to believe that they’ve broken you. Not you; you can’t be broken.”

Morgause stepped closer so their bodies were almost flush against each other, Morgause’s chest hovering closer with every in-breath. She lifted her hand from her cheek, playing with the strands of hair framing Morgana’s face. 

“Do you remember what we were like that summer?” she asked gently. “Before you came to me in Vancouver in the winter, before I had met Cenred? We were perfection . . .” Her eyes drifted off her face, looking over Morgana’s shoulder at something far away. “You were so eager to learn about your mother, about your magic, and I felt . . . fulfilled for the first time since Nimueh died. I knew, then, that only together could we accomplish anything, Morgana. I knew then that we had to do this thing together. You and I.” She looked at Morgana again and walked over to the couch. “You and I against the world. You and I completing the mission that Nimueh, your mother, gave her life for. You and I bringing magic back to this dead world. It was meant to be, don’t you see? You, her lost child, me, her adopted child, finishing the task she set out to do.”

Morgana closed her eyelids; it was her only defense against the seductive glow in Morgause’s warm chocolate eyes. The truth was, she wished she could deny it. She wished she hadn’t felt it, too, this dull sense that without Morgause she would plod through her life day by day, dying as she’d been born, in captivity. She wished Morgause were wrong or insane. But she couldn’t want this again, this thudding desire in her blood to feel alive again.

“Morgana,” Morgause whispered, “come here.” Without touching her, Morgause tugged Morgana’s hand away from the wall, compelled her body over to the ratty velvet sofa. It was a simple spell, one that they used to practice gleefully on each other, forcing the other’s body to obey, to follow the simple pressure of a raised hand. Morgana sat against her will. Morgause ran her fingers over the top of her head, and then she retreated to the rug in the center of the room. 

“I think you’ve forgotten, Morgana. You’ve locked your memories away, you’ve locked away the pieces of you that know what it feels like to bask in the sun, unafraid. So I’m going to show you. I’m going to show you two things. I’m going to show you what we were. And I’m going to show you that I never betrayed you, that nothing ever touched us.” She moved around the room, and Morgana saw that she had placed candles in a wide circle on the floor in front of the couch. 

“You know this spell as well as I do, love.” She paused, fixing Morgana with her penetrating stare, as if she could see inside her, pull out the memories and the feelings she’d buried one by one. “And you know that it does not lie. You know that it reveals the past as I felt it. You also know what it takes for me to cast this, and that I would never do so lightly. I pay this price because I value you so much. This is how much I want you by my side.” Morgana wondered if Morgause had ever said something so nakedly honest to her before. 

Pacing back over to Morgana, Morgause stroked down her cheek once again, then pressed a thin glass vial in her hand. “When it is done, my paralyzing spell on you will be lifted, and my life will be in your hands. Pour this down my throat if you want me to live. If not, then all you have to do is walk away. Keep walking away.” Then she bent to Morgana’s face and brushed her dry lips over Morgana’s, just the lightest touch, not even a kiss really. 

She stood, snapped her fingers, and the room plunged into darkness. She moved outside the circle of candles, paced it slowly three times, soft words falling from her lips. Then she bent to light one candle, whispering to it. She repeated this process twelve times.

The stabs of pain, the restless shards of magic in her blood, it all receded as Morgana stared, unable to think, unable to move even if she had wanted to, unable to close her eyes as Morgause circled in front of her, her eyes flashing in the low light. Magic thickened the air like smoke as Morgause wove the foundations for an _Èagsynes mynesceawung_ —a spell that wormed its way into the dark corners of the mind and ripped a memory from it, a memory so perfectly preserved that sometimes even the caster couldn’t access it. 

As Morgause spoke, Morgana remembered. She remembered how, when she had first learned of the _Èagsynes mynesceawung_ , she’d begged Morgause to let her try it so she could once again possess those few moments she’d had as a young baby with Nimueh, but Morgause had strictly forbidden it. They’d record the whole thing on camera, she’d argued, and then she’d have those lost memories back forever. The _Èagsynes mynesceawung_ eats through your brain like battery acid, Morgause had explained, searches for the specific memory with the relentless violence of a summer tornado, ransacking your brain until it finds the moment. Only a carefully produced counterspell, a healing elixir—Morgana glanced down at the vial in her hand—could restore the damage to your mind that the _Èagsynes mynesceawung_ wrought and prevent sanity and life force from bleeding out of you.

Morgause locked eyes with Morgana, and then pulled a jeweled dagger free from where it hung at her belt. She was wearing an elaborately wrought maroon and silver dress, made of expensive, sheer material, the type of dress she wore when practicing the most difficult forms of magic, a dress designed to channel the ancient power. 

Morgause lifted the dagger to her left underarm and, chanting in the ancient tongue, slit the fine fabric of her sleeve from the top of her arm down to her wrist. _Lay me bare_ the spell commanded, the meaning of the ancient words entering Morgana’s mind as if the language had never left. Morgause repeated the process on her other sleeve, the light fabric floating free to fall at her sides and expose the pale flesh of her arms. 

_With this blood_. Morgause cut deep into the palm of her hand. She was pacing the inside of the circle now, dripping blood over the base of each candle. _Find the truth buried in me._ Morgause completed the circle, and then began again. _And this truth, find this, buried in me_. 

A double _Èagsynes mynesceawung_ , she was casting a double one, Morgana realized with a start. How would that not kill her?

Magic swirled in the room like the cream dancing thickly through coffee. It felt like honey coating Morgana’s lungs every time she tried to inhale, so foreign, so familiar, so sweet, so thick on her tongue, cloying, so hard to swallow. Morgause collapsed in the center of the circle, blood from her palm trickling on the stained gray carpet. 

And then it began. Millions of multi-colored lights floated up from Morgause’s body, twirling in the air, filling out the three dimensions of the perfect circle that Morgause had laid, tracing patterns of light and darkness that slowly shifted, forming the back gardens of the Pendragon summer manor, the speckled night of the Newport sky.

The light slap of waves on sand sounded through Morgana’s empty apartment, and the vision maneuvered through full green bushes, the sandy rock garden, the bent weeping willows, the bursts of purple and blue hydrangeas. It paced down the stone steps edged with grass, along the low, loose granite wall covered in pale yellow honeysuckle, over the expansive lawn that sloped to the water. Morgana was living through Morgause’s senses. Like a movie, like the inside of a planetarium, but more whole, she heard what Morgause had heard, saw what she had seen, smelled what she had smelled. The memory assaulted her senses, dragged her back to a world she no longer inhabited, a person she no longer knew. Her breath felt stuck; her heart shocked still. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop her ears, couldn’t hold her nose against the salty smell of the Narragansett Bay and the pungency of low tide.

The sand and the pier off the Pendragon lawn came into view as the memory treaded over the three-acre property down to the edge of the water. As it drew closer, Morgana saw a form sitting huddled at the edge of the pier, dark, wavy hair pouring over bony shoulders. 

The vision inched closer, and Morgause’s voice called out softly, “Morgana?”

She watched herself start and turn. She looked so small for twenty-one, dressed in a thin tank-top and checkered pajama bottoms. Her face that always looked too wide, with too much room for emotion, stared out from the vision. Even in the darkness, it was clear how tinged with red her eyes were. Of course she’d been crying.

“May I sit?” Morgause’s voice slid like silk through the room.

Morgana nodded and scooted over on the pier. The point of view of the vision changed as Morgause sat. Morgause’s booted feet dangled next to Morgana’s bare feet as they hung just inches above the softly rolling water, her toenails painted a sparkling black. In front of them, the black of the bay; the arch of the Newport Bridge, its lights gleaming like jewels in a crown; the scattered radiance from the few lit-up buildings in Jamestown; the swirling bright circle of Beavertail Lighthouse; the white, red, and green glow of night-sailing boats. Above them the faraway dust of the Milky Way, a crisp crescent moon, the connect-the-dots lines of Cygnus, of the Big and Little Dippers. 

She had not been back since that summer, the summer she and Arthur had been allowed to spend three months at the Pendragon summer manor with just their friends and no chaperones, no nurses, no doctors, no Gaius. It was supposed to have been Morgana’s last cry of freedom before beginning her ill-fated job at Camelot Pharmaceuticals. Of course she hadn’t been back there since. She had been in jail.

The vision turned to look at Morgana’s face, and Morgause’s hand stroked over Morgana’s cheek. “You’ve been crying.”

Morgana turned away, shrugging off Morgause’s hand.

“It’s nothing.”

“Okay.” There was so much acceptance in that voice. “But if you want to tell me you can.”

Morgana looked away, out to the open water. For long moments, the only sound was the slap of water behind them.

“It’s Gwen,” Morgana finally said softly, still staring straight ahead of her. She bit her lip. “We had a fight because, well, because she doesn’t like you.”

And then Morgana shifted, staring full-on at Morgause, full-on at the Morgana who sat trapped on the couch. “Why are you here, Morgause?” She held up a hand. “And don’t tell me it’s because of those dusty boxes in the attic. If the research for your master’s thesis was really that important, you would be spending more than one hour a day up there. Ever since you’ve moved in, you’ve barely been in the attic. It’s like you’ve become a part of our life so completely in the past month, and none of us know why or how that happened.”

Neither spoke, and Morgana’s red-rimmed eyes searched Morgause’s face. The point of view shifted, and Morgause was staring out at the black stretch of the bay. 

“You’re right.” The words tumbled out of the vision. “I’m not here for those boxes. I’m here for you, Morgana. I came to Newport to find you. I don’t care about the newspaper clippings stored away in Uther’s attic. That was all just a front to get an in with you. With _you_ . . . I’m here to give you your birthright.”

Morgana laughed sharply beside her, and the viewpoint shifted to stare at her profile. “My birthright? What would that be besides a handful of drugs, press conferences, and interviews?”

“I knew your mother.”

“My . . . what?” Morgana gaped. “How is that even possible? She died giving birth to me.”

“That’s a lie. She died when you were twelve.”

Morgana’s forehead creased. “What? No, that’s not . . .”

“Nimueh was your mother.”

“Nimueh? Nimueh LeFay?”

The view shifted up and down. Morgause was nodding. 

Morgana wrapped her arms around her midsection and shivered. Her gaze hardened, and she stared at Morgause, speechless. She was shaking her head, eyes glazed over, her whole body was quivering. When she finally spoke, her voice was high and thin. “No, no, that’s not possible. There’s no way that . . . that criminal was my mother.” Pushing herself up, she hurried away, her bare feet soft against the wood. The point of view followed suit, dashing after her. 

Morgause’s hand wrapped around her bare upper arm. “Morgana, wait.”

Morgana spun, eyes blazing. “You need to leave our house, Morgause. You speak slander, and I don’t need to listen to your lies. My mother was a CHAD patient who died giving birth to me. She was not a . . . a mad terrorist who was sentenced to death seven years before I was even born.”

“You’re wrong,” Morgause said calmly. “Your history books speak lies. I know because she raised me.”

“That’s not true! Nimueh LeFay died! Stop lying to me!” Morgana flailed, shaking off Morgause’s grip. Her hand rose to slap Morgause, but Morgause caught her wrist.

“Come with me. I’ll prove it to you. I’ve got something to show you, and if you don’t believe me after that, I’ll leave the Pendragon Estate in the morning, I promise.”

Morgana lifted her chin, and she looked so young in her attempt at confidence, so transparently failing to hide the fear beating its wings fast behind her eyes.

“Come with me.” Morgause intertwined her fingers with Morgana’s and led them back up the grassy hill. Instead of walking up the stone steps toward the sprawling, dark shingle-and-stone house, she cut down a side path winding around the pool and into the compact, two-bedroom guesthouse. Inside the moonlit house, they climbed the spiral staircase to the upstairs bedroom where Morgause had been staying. She flicked on the bedside lamp and pulled a small box from her bedside table. 

“When Ygraine was still alive, she gave you a bracelet on your fourth birthday, did she not?”

Morgana frowned and nodded once, curtly.

“She told you it was your mother’s. And that your mother had worn one, too, when pregnant with you. And that your mother had wished that she hadn’t been so sick, so that she could have been with you longer.”

Again, Morgana nodded.

“Here is the matching bracelet that your mother wore.”

Her hand passed the box into Morgana’s fingers.

Morgana opened it. She stared in the box, and then flung it to the ground, her body crumpling as she followed it. “No,” she ground out, low and hot, as she pulled her knees tightly to her chest and leaned her back against the bed. “No.” Her eyes met Morgause’s defiantly. “This proves nothing.” Her voice wavered like glass about to shatter.

“I thought you might say that. Look at this clipping I found.” The viewpoint moved over to the dresser, opened a manila folder, and held out a yellowed slip of newspaper.

 _Young Woman Saves Senator’s Son_ the clipping read and showed a photograph of Nimueh, smiling dazedly into the camera, her arm over the shoulder of a nineteen-year old Uther Pendragon, whose head was turned away from the camera, staring at the dark-haired young woman next to him with an open smile of admiration. And on Nimueh’s wrist, that dangled from Uther’s shoulder, where the sleeve of her blouse was tugged back, hung twin bracelets, finely wrought metal studded with garnets. 

Morgana in the vision stared at the paper long and hard. Everyone knew that story—how Nimueh LeFay had saved a young Uther Pendragon from an assassination attempt. She had saved his life and simultaneously revealed her powerful magic. The former made her a hero, the latter made her, by default, an enemy of the state condemned to death. That was where the story had ended when Uther had told it. This moment had inspired him to study medicine, to save the lives of CHAD sufferers, as Nimueh had saved his.

But when Morgana had sat through Modern US History in college, she had learned more. She’d learned how protesters had marched on Washington to challenge Nimueh’s execution. How could this country kill a charismatic twenty-year-old woman who had only acted out of the goodness of her heart? How could they paint her as a menace to the state when she’d saved a famous senator’s son? She’d learned how the state had stalled for years before executing Nimueh, waiting for the unrest to die down, but it only seemed to surge up more every year. Underground groups of unidentified CHAD sufferers began forming, firebombing government buildings, demanding Nimueh’s release. Finally, after ten years awaiting her death, Nimueh broke out of a maximum-security prison, and joined the terrorist groups as their victorious queen. The magic rebellion then squashed any remaining sympathies for CHAD sufferers when, after six month of bloodshed on both sides, the country teetered on the brink of civil war. In what was considered an FBI tour de force, agents infiltrated the rebellion, and Nimueh and the twenty other rebellion leaders were apprehended and swiftly executed under the provisions of the new Myror Law, which stated that any sign of CHAD lead to immediate execution of the afflicted without trial. It wasn’t until four years later when Camelot Pharmaceuticals claimed to have invented the first medical cure for CHAD sufferers that the Myror Law was revised to state that only CHAD sufferers who willfully avoided medication could be treated as enemies of the state.

In the vision, Morgana stood, slowly, purposefully, laid the scrap of newsprint on the quilted bedcover behind her, clasped her hands in front of her, and stared down at them, shaking her head back and forth as if trying to wipe the picture printed there from her mind. 

Her lips had gone white, and she swallowed as if trying to keep it all inside, all those pieces that were suddenly clicking into place with a sickening lurch, proving to her what she’d always feared—that not only was she different and sick, she was wrong in the worst kind of way.

“I . . . I can’t be Nimueh’s daughter,” she protested.

The vision stepped closer as Morgause moved to comfort her, lifting her hand to Morgana’s cheek. Morgana’s head snapped up, and she glared at Morgause, slapping her hand away. Morgause was undeterred. She shifted closer, trying to pull Morgana into a tight embrace. Morgana lifted both fists and pounded once, twice, hard against Morgause’s thin chest, but Morgause just wrapped her arms around Morgana’s back and whispered to her. “I know, love, I know.” Over and over as Morgana shook and then stilled under her, fists balled against her chest, back stiff. The vision blurred as Morgause leaned in, until all it showed was the close-up of Morgana’s hair as Morgause buried her face in it, the only sound Morgana’s jagged breaths.

Finally, Morgana pulled away, the bloodshot red in her eyes contrasting sharply with the green. “How is it even possible that Nimueh LeFay was my mother?” 

Morgause stroked over her hair. “Nimueh was never executed. The execution was a farce. All the leaders of the rebellion were given into the care of Camelot Pharmaceuticals as test subjects. No one really knows how Uther negotiated it—he must have convinced them that he had the means to control them. I believe that Camelot Pharmaceuticals has some kind of pact with the government; they still get many test subjects from backroom dealings. Many sorcerers, prisoners who are supposed to be dead or incarcerated, end up test subjects in Camelot’s secret basement laboratories.” She bit her lip and looked away. “You were born in captivity, as you know. But you weren’t just the chance child of a test subject who arrived at the laboratories pregnant, as you’ve been told. Nimueh became pregnant while there. She was forced to give you up.”

“But how do you know all this?”

“Four years before you were born, Vivienne was pregnant with me. She was one of the leaders of the magic rebellion. The faked execution caused her to go into early labor. I was born almost three months early, and she died giving birth to me. She was buried, and I was sent to a children’s hospital, because they didn’t have the equipment and medicine to care for me in the Camelot labs. Somebody—I don’t know who—saw that I was given up for adoption quickly, instead of being returned to the Camelot labs once I was well enough to leave the hospital.”

“And your adoptive parents told you this?”

“No, they didn’t know. I didn’t know until Nimueh came to find me years later.”

“She what?”

“There was a massive breakout from the labs. Shortly after Arthur was born, Nimueh, my father, and a handful of other sorcerers orchestrated an escape. She kidnapped me, brought me to Canada where she raised me. And it was good she did, too. My adoptive parents wouldn’t have known what to do with me once my magic powers starting manifesting.”

“And my father? Who was my father? Did he escape, too?” Morgana asked softly.

“No one knows who he was. Nimueh had some ideas about it. She told me it could have been one of three people. It could have been Gorlois, my father, making you and I half-sisters. She and he became close after Vivienne’s death, and even locked up in the laboratory, they found a way to be together. That’s what I hope for most, that you and I are truly sisters.”

“Who were the other men?”

“Men she didn’t like to talk about. I think it was the guards or doctors experimenting on her.”

“So she was raped,” Morgana said flatly.

“Yes.”

Neither spoke as the vision watched Morgana stare off into space.

“Gorlois, is he still alive?”

“No, he died during the escape. Nimueh came for me because he couldn’t.”

Morgana remembered everything. How everything she had wanted to ask— _What was she like, my mother? Where did you both live? How did she die?_ questions she would later learn the answers to—had been swallowed up by the looming and rather embarrassing disappointment at the thought that this woman, so sexy, so intent on her, could be her sister.

The vision grayed, the swirling dots of light tumbled back into Morgause’s prone body. Morgana’s breath pounded through her on the couch as a million other memories charged into her mind: the letter Morgause had brought her from Nimueh, the magic Morgause showed her, the magic she promised Morgana could access, too, once she slowly went off the drugs, the late hours they sat up talking on the dock or tucked away in one of the manor’s many nooks, eating ice cream on ostentatious Chippendale furniture as Morgana told her how Uther treated her like a prized poodle, a charity case that he trotted out to prove his benevolence, as Morgana told Morgause how she had wanted to work for an international aid program but how instead Uther had strong-armed her into accepting a position in Camelot’s PR department. 

The closer she and Morgause had grown, like vines twisting naturally around each other as they reached toward the sun, the less time Morgana had spent with Gwen that summer, the more hours Gwen and Arthur had spent at the beach with their new friends Merlin and Lancelot. In the end, Morgana hadn’t even cared that her girlfriend had reached for her less and less in the king-sized bed they shared, miles away from each other in that massive space, or that she often walked in on Gwen and Arthur cuddled together in front of the television.

Morgause’s body twitched on Morgana’s threadbare carpet, her chest heaving, her arms spasming slightly, hands clenching, registering the effects of the double _Èagsynes mynesceawung_. A fierce series of stabbing pains drove through Morgana’s own skull, blacking out the edges of her vision, and she was reminded of her own body’s limits. If she didn’t take her evening meds soon, she wouldn’t be able to.

The colored lights were spiraling out of Morgause’s body again, dancing into three dimensions of the past. Morgana blinked against the pain in her head, since all other movement was restricted, and watched the picture taking shape with a racing heart.

It was the noises that told her where Morgause’s memory was taking them. The stomping of combat boots, the click of automatic rifles being reloaded.

“Fuck,” she said blankly as she stared at it. “Fuck you, Morgause, I am _not_ watching this.” She struggled in earnest, then, trying to lift off the couch, to shut her eyes, to stop her ears. 

But she had no control over her body. Not that she ever did.

So she watched.

She watched as the vision marched past eight marines standing at attention. Empty sockets where their eyes should have been, red and blue lights illuminated the pale skin of undead Navy SEALs. 

“Take the third element and go relieve the second at the West Entrance.” Morgause’s voice brooked no opposition, so different from the gentle tones she’d used on Morgana that summer. In a hurried, synchronized tempo, combat boots echoed on the tiled floor and down the stairwell. Morgause’s hand came into view and pulled back an inch of fabric covering the window. Outside a sea of red and blue lights ebbed at the edges if the parking lot, held back by a low wall of fire that burned a magic, impenetrable circle into the ground around the building. Spotlights from helicopters painted over the area. 

The vision shifted to follow the footsteps of the retreating soldiers down the stairwell, rushed through the open doorframe, blew past the hostages huddled together in the foyer’s far corner, and centered in on the wide company reception desk where Morgana sat facing the main entrance, which was blockaded with heavy furniture. Dusty, bloody, and singed, she fidgeted with the semi-automatic in her hands. 

“Any word from the chief of police?” Morgause called over to her.

Morgana’s eyes warmed as the vision approached. She shook her head. She glanced to the clock, to the cluster of hostages in the corner, to Cenred, standing with four undead marines at his back, his Glock out, and a wide smirk plastered across his face. 

“It’s time,” Morgause bit out.

“Yes,” Morgana replied flatly. 

“If we don’t keep our word, they’ll never meet our demands.”

“Uther will be the first to go.” Morgana’s young voice quivered. “That was the plan, after all.” 

They both turned to examine the crowd of hostages, employees twitching and crowding into each other. Some were pretending not to be watching them, some shaking, quietly swallowing their sobs, others glaring outright, most staring blankly into nothing. To their left, ringed by four undead marines, Uther sat strapped tightly to a chair. As if sensing Morgause’s intention, the ring of undead marines cordoning off the hostages inched in closer, isolating him more from the other hostages.

“Bring him to us,” Morgause commanded, nodding at Cenred.

Grinning widely, he holstered his gun and pulled a long knife from his knee-high leather boot. Cenred cut Uther’s ropes and hauled him to his feet by the crumpled collar of his suit jacket. The man staggered, his age, his disbelief writ in deep lines across his face. Scoffing, Cenred shoved him across the floor, finally kicking him to the ground in front of Morgause and Morgana. Cenred took up position behind him, wrenched him onto his knees, and then pinned and tied his arms behind his back before retreating a foot, ever at the ready.

Uther on his knees in front of them—finally.

He gazed up, eyes hard, face broken. “After all I’ve given you, after all . . .”

“And what is that exactly?” Morgana interrupted, voice smooth and low. “What is that you’ve given me? Genetic testing? Medication?” She aimed her words at Uther like slow, steady punches to the gut. He flinched as she spoke. 

“Or perhaps you’re talking about separating me from my mother, and then hunting her down and killing her years after she had escaped your grasp?” She closed the distance between them, placed one steel-toed boot on his thigh where he knelt. 

“You don’t know what you’re saying. You’ve gone off your medication.” He was reasoning to himself, frowning. His head snapped to the side to glare at Morgause, deep lines creasing his forehead. “What have you done to her?” he demanded. “You’ve poisoned her, corrupted her. You and your sorcery.”

Morgana’s boot pummeled his stomach as she leaned forward and dug her fingers into his stubbled jaw, forced his head up so he was staring at her.

“No. She saved me. Showed me how to use my gifts. I didn’t choose to be born this way.” She leaned in closer, trailed first one hand than the other down his neck, her voice and her hands at his throat, a very real threat. “Just like I didn’t get to choose my father. Did you hide those paternity tests from Ygraine like you hid them from me?” 

Uther’s eyes widened, but he remained silent under the circle of her hands.

“You’re my father. You made me who I am. Just as much as Morgause did. Raised me to be your ward, your sick, crippled child. Your public relations goldmine, the living embodiment of your sympathy. More like the living embodiment of your lies.” She shoved hard with her boot, knocking him to his back. His throat slid from her hands. 

Her voice narrowed, pitched higher. She paced around him, then placed one foot on his shoulder. “Do you know what it felt like? To be trotted out at every press conference? To watch as you argued for tighter restrictions in front of congress? To tour the CHAD facilities with you, knowing that in one slip-up, I could end up there, too, straight-jacketed and force-fed? And then, last fall, you did throw me in there. Your own daughter, locked in a white room, let out only to be tied to machines that sent electricity through my body, injected with so many meds I barely remember those months.”

“No,” she shook her head. “You blamed my genes, you blamed the strength of my magic, but it was you who made me sick, Uther Pendragon. With your lies, with your drugs.” She was circling him again. “You’re trying to destroy me, just like you destroyed Nimueh.”

Pushing himself up on his elbows, he surged towards her. “Don’t say her name! You don’t have the first idea about what I did . . .” She laughed a few words in the ancient tongue, twirling her fingers as she tied him up with the knots of a paralysis spell, pinning him below her.

“I know silencing spells, too,” she smirked. “You will listen. And I _will_ say her name. I hope Nimueh haunts you, and Ygraine, too, for never having told her how you abused Nimueh. I hope that everyone you’ve killed because we’ve never been anything more than lab rats to you visits you in your sleep, damns you.” Her voice grew quiet, then, and she turned her back on him. “My mother saved your life once. She saved your life, and you repaid her by secreting her away to be your own personal test subject, raping her, using her as a discarded receptacle for your seed, sending police after her when she finally managed to escape Camelot’s laboratories, and then having your own men kill her when she returned ten years later to find me.” She towered over him, clenching her fists. “Is that right? Did I get your list of accomplishments in regards to Subject 276-A7R-NIM correct?”

“No,” he said softly when she released the spell, his voice broken into shards. “It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t . . . she was . . .”

Morgana backhanded him, drawing blood from his lips. “Don’t lie to me!” she yelled, voice shrill enough to break glass. “You tortured and raped my mother, and you kept me around to ease your guilt. I was never anything more than a tool to assuage your conscience.”

“I’ll do it my way, Cenred,” she said, shaking her head at the proffered gun. “This is my job, not yours, to kill him with the magic that he has spent his whole life trying to eradicate.” 

Cenred shrugged and retreated, drawing closer to the hostages on the other side of the room.

She cracked her knuckles, stepped back and closed her eyes. She was calling more fire magic from her belly: feeling for the spark, stoking the fire inside her until it raged through her veins, giving herself over to the power, letting herself become the fire.

Suddenly, the vision shifted as a noise cut through the silence. Morgause was looking behind her, staring at the reception desk where Morgana had been sitting. The phone was ringing. The vision narrowed in on it, picked it up.

“This is Arthur Pendragon, with whom am I speaking?”

“Arthur, what a pleasure,” Morgause drawled, still watching Morgana, who had halted her spell, fingers splayed.

“Morgause. I’m outside with the police. Look, Morgause, you can still walk away from this. Just leave my father and Morgana alone. Let them live and I’ll do everything I can to prevent the law from going too hard on you.”

“Really, Arthur? And please, elaborate on what influence you have on the law? What can a nineteen-year-old daddy’s boy like you do? You can tell the police, who I’m sure are standing right next to you, that this attempt to buy more time is, frankly, ridiculous. You’ve had one hour. Until I have confirmation that the inmates from the fifteen CHAD facilities in New York City are released, we will be killing one hostage on the hour, starting now. We’ve already made those terms clear.”

“You have to know they won’t do that, Morgause. They can’t.”

“Well then your father will die, won’t he? He’s the first hostage we’re about to execute.”

“No, Morgause, just . . . just let me speak to Morgana. Please.” Back then Arthur’s voice had still betrayed emotions occasionally, the public persona he was developing was nascent yet, rough around the edges. Unlike the automaton he seemed to be today.

“Do you want to talk to your half-brother?” Morgause called over to Morgana. She nodded, eyes wary and took the phone.

“There’s nothing you can say to me, Arthur.”

Morgause stood back, watching.

“I _will_ kill father, Arthur. Does it bother you that I can call him that, too?”

She bit her lip, listening. “You know nothing . . . you know . . .” 

“I’m hanging up now, Arthur. You tell the chief of police out there that we’re killing our first hostage now in here, and . . .”

He was rattling in her ear, she turned and rolled her eyes at Morgause.

“Fine you want to stay on the line while I kill him? You want to hear father’s screams as he dies? Here, let Morgause talk you through it, tell you what’s happening.” She turned and nodded to Morgause, holding the phone out to her. The vision stepped forward to take it.

On the couch, outside the vision, Morgana fought futilely against the paralysis spell to lean in. Because this moment, this moment right here was where the memories always stopped. No matter how many different ways the DAs and the police and the PDs and the doctors had asked her, this is where it all went black. Arthur’s voice in her ear, Morgause closing in to take the phone from her.

A creaking sound ripped through the wide foyer and Morgause’s vision flicked up just in time to watch the monstrous plastic-and-metal Camelot Pharmaceuticals sign swing wildly as one of its two chains came loose. Morgause yelled, calling out Morgana’s name, and jumped back just as the sign thundered down, clipping Morgana in the back of the head and tossing her face-first into the floor before continuing forward to knock Morgause on the shoulder, throwing her down. 

The vision flickered as Morgause blinked, then steadied as she opened her eyes. Her heavy breathing and the rush of footsteps were the only sounds. The vision pushed up and shifted. Morgause crawled over to Morgana’s prone form, crumpled on the ground, twitching, bleeding from the head.

“Morgause, Morgause . . .” Cenred was at her side, his long hair swinging into her field of vision. “Where are you injured?”

“My shoulder, my ankle,” she said with grit in her voice. “I don’t know if I can walk.”

The vision tilted wildly and suddenly Cenred’s face was too close. He had scooped her up in his arms and was cradling her to his chest. His large hand ran over her hair. “The back of your head is bleeding. Probably from the impact with the floor. We have to get out of here. We need to reach the exit portal.”

“I’m not leaving her, Cenred.” The viewpoint jolted, unsteady. She was struggling in his arms.

“She’s knocked out, sweetheart,” he was pleading now, “that means the fire-ring she was channeling is down. This place is going to be crawling with SWAT teams in seconds. We have to get out. I can’t carry two of you.” He strode towards the stairwell, her head bumping against his chest, her vision blinking in and out as around them, her SEALs crumpled, falling to the ground as power bled out of her. 

“I’m not leaving her!” She squirmed against his chest, but did not break free.

“Yes, we are. We’ve got to save ourselves. You always cared too much for that spoiled brat.” He shouldered open the door to the stairwell and made it up two flights of stairs—only one story away from the exit portal they had planted—before she managed to squirm out of his arms. The vision keeled and tilted, hair and fists flying as Morgause landed a punch on Cenred’s jaw and then stumbled into his chest. Spinning the two of them, he pinned her to the wall, leaned in so his face blocked out everything else. “Stop this. Let her go. Let this go.”

“Fuck you, Cenred. You don’t understand.”

“If I have to knock you unconscious to get you out, I will. But we’re leaving her. It’s too late, Morgause.” He was yelling into her mouth now, his flashing eyes huge and wide. “We have to save ourselves.”

The vision leaned forward and then slammed down, crashing into Cenred’s face, with what had to have been Morgause’s headbutting him. He pitched back as she turned away, limped down a step, two steps. Then the vision spun around again. He yanked her by the arm and wrenched her to him. “You hear that?” he hissed. “You hear those footsteps?” The floor under them rumbled with the stormwind rush of trampling feet.

“I’ll never forgive you for this,” Morgause said quietly. “Never.” 

Head tilted forward, he stared up at her through dangling hair, eyes widening like he was seeing her for the first time.

“Don’t say that. Don’t. Just, get us out of here. Morgause, please!” He jerked his head toward the exit portal one flight up.

“You on the stairs. Freeze!” The order echoed in the stairwell, seemingly coming from all around them.

Cenred spun, dragging Morgause up one step by the wrist. She twisted her arm out of his grip and moved away from him, hugging the wall. “Morgause, Morgause, get us out of here,” he was pleading, chanting her name. 

And then the stairwell filled with gunshots, ricocheting, deafening. Behind them, around them. Two steps in front of her, Cenred flew forward on his face and slammed into the concrete of the landing. Morgause limped to him, focusing in on torn flesh visible through his leather jacket.

Her fingers brushed over the bullet entrance by his lower left shoulder, and then stroked over the stubble on his cheek. “So that’s it, then, love?” His body twitched, he may have still been alive. Morgause pressed one palm over his spine, one over the bullet wound. “I’m sorry, Cenred. They can’t find your body like this,” she whispered. “Go in peace.” She incanted the words that pulled close the shroud between life and death, poured the last of her necromantic powers into dispersing his body gently. Bullets stung the air around her. She ducked, crouching, hobbled up the last stairs. She flung herself into the exit portal, incanting as her vision collided with the opening swirl in the wall. 

Blackness ripped the vision into shreds.

///

The sphere in the middle of the room shrunk, and the lights descended, pouring into Morgause’s still body. With a whoosh, the candles in the circle blew out, the electric lights buzzed on, and the heavy pressure of the paralysis spell dissolved. Shaking her head from side to side, stretching her fingers, Morgana’s body felt as if it were surfacing from great, watery depths, returning to the air, unsure if the heady inhales of oxygen were too much. 

Bracing herself against the couch, she stood, stumbled towards Morgause. She fell on her knees, one leg on each side of Morgause’s prone form, her arms pressed close to her shoulders. Black spots flitted across her vision, and her head felt like it might float off her body.

Lips whitened, breathing shallow, cuts on her palms bled dry, Morgause lay still as death. 

Morgana could tip the healing elixir down her throat. 

Or she could not.

Morgana could choose to do nothing. 

All those nights she had cursed Morgause, wished pain on her, slapped herself for trusting this stranger who had seduced her with knowledge she no longer wanted, who had promised that the truth would set her free, when instead it had landed her locked up—all those nights churned in her gut.

Morgana ran a finger over the shredded silk by Morgause’s shoulder, over the pale skin of her arm. Right above the inner crease of her elbow, she pressed an indentation. Her skin was growing colder. All those times she would have killed to touch Morgause. 

She could stand up and walk to her refrigerator and take her meds and go to bed on the twin mattress tucked under the slanting roof and stare at the rafters until she fell asleep. And Morgause would die. Morgana would wake up in the morning, and call the police to report Morgause, and go to her doctor’s appointments, and sit in the library and read, and ride the subway to work, and come home and go to bed only to get up and walk those same steps once again. 

Morgana watched Morgause struggle to breathe. Jerkily, her head tossed to the side, her blonde hair fell away to reveal blood trickling out of her ear. 

She would die. Her time was almost up. 

Morgana looked at the vial clenched in her own fingers. Light from the single, naked light bulb in the socket above her reflected off the dark, caramel-colored liquid in the glass. So much power. Just a few drops should restore her. Might restore her. There was still a chance it would fail.

“I hate you,” she said softly, reaching down to push away from Morgause’s temple. “I hate you for giving me this choice, but not giving me other ones. For not ever asking me that night on the pier if I wanted to know. You should have asked me.”

And then, violently, she wrenched back Morgause’s head, unstoppered the vial, tossed the liquid down Morgause’s throat with shaking fingers. Pushing herself up, she stumbled two steps, collapsed to the floor again, clutching to the arm of the sofa, and vomited on the gray carpet.

The taste of blood and bile was bitter in her mouth as she stared down at the floor, shoulders hunched, stomach trembling, trying desperately to catch her breath. How long had she been on that couch, watching Morgause’s memories play out? She’d gone too long without her meds. She would have to go to the hospital and report herself and miss a few days of work. There would be a brief, informal investigation because she had skipped one dosage. It would go on her record. Judith would smile at her in that tight-lipped, disappointed way. 

But it didn’t sting, knowing all that. It felt distant, like a threat to somebody else. 

Morgana shuddered, closed her eyes, and waited for the energy to stand up, to stumble to her purse, to fish out her cell phone and call 911. That’s all she needed to do, make it to a phone, and then the ambulance would come.

She would stand up in a minute. In a minute.

Her vision was graying out, tunneling away, when the feather touch of a hand stroked over her cheek, pulled tangled hair back from her face.

“Darling, what is it?” Morgause’s strong grip was on her shoulders, pulling her up onto shaky legs, supporting her to the couch.

“Meds, my meds. . . . Missed my meds,” Morgana sputtered, leaning back.

“Strong. You’re so strong.” Morgause guided her so she was lying on her side on the couch. Her stomach jumped. She curled her quivering legs in on herself and closed her eyes.

“I wish you’d said something when you came in.” Morgause’s soft voice sounded light years away as she settled herself in the V of Morgana’s body. “I’ll do what I can.”

A heavy weight settled in Morgana’s stomach then, before it crumbled and bloomed instantly, prickling and hot as it grew roots and curled up around her lower back, into her groin, down the backs of her thighs. Morgause was enchanting a _blódseten_ as she stroked her hair back from her face, almost as if she didn’t know she was doing it. A crude but effective way to stop pain and bleeding. Magic soaked through her skin, numbing, warming, penetrating every pore with the memory of power. She sighed as the soothing roots twisted around her neck, climbed into her head, clenched around the pain, squeezing it to a quick death. 

Soothed, her own restless, powerless magic quieted as well, as if comforted by the foreign power, blazing and strong, which encircled it. 

Like she was floating on a cloud of Vicodin, but clearer. Morgana fluttered her eyes open and looked at Morgause leaning over her, chest heaving, face still deathly pale, dark eyes searching hers. 

They stared at each other, neither looking away, neither speaking. 

Morgana felt like she had been broken down into the smallest possible pieces of herself and couldn’t quite put it all back together, like she was nothing more than a puzzle scattered across the couch. She thought of the trial, the news coverage, the paparazzi. She thought of all the nights, all the nights where she would stare up at the ugly drop ceiling in the room she’d shared with three other prisoners and recall that face, tell herself to hate it, seethe over the captivity, the shame. 

She swallowed. “For ten years I thought . . . but . . . you didn’t put me there.”

Morgause shook her head. “I never chose to abandon you, love. Never. It killed me to leave you there.” 

“And you, what, just guessed that I wouldn’t abandon you here and now? How could you be so stupid? I wanted to kill you. . . . I almost did kill you.” 

Morgause looked away, then. “It was a risk I was willing to take. You know me.” She smiled wryly. “I don’t back down from risks.”

She squeezed Morgana’s hand and stood slowly, pressing a palm to her forehead. “I’m getting some water. Tell me what meds you need. The _blódseten_ will only last for a couple of hours, give or take.”

Morgana rattled off a mouthful of pharmaceutical names and slumped back into the couch, suddenly aware of how completely sapped of energy her body was. Quietly Morgause moved around her kitchen. Morgana closed her eyes, sleep lurking close by. She didn’t know how long she’d been lying there, her mind lulling itself into a doze, then sputtering awake, when Morgause returned, wordlessly handed her the pills, prepped the hypodermic needle and then looked away as Morgana jabbed herself. The cool fluid slithered up her arm, under her skin, cutting though the haze of the _blódseten_ with a knife’s sharpness. It would attack and bind the extra magic Morgause had just poured into her system. She would pay even more for those few minutes of floating comfort.

“I . . . I need to sleep,” Morgana stammered. Let the war raging in her body take place without her.

Morgause nodded, solemnly. “We need to talk, though.”

“Where are you staying?”

Morgause shrugged. “Here, there, everywhere. Nowhere for more than a night. I have to leave Philadelphia soon.”

Morgana wanted to ask her to spend the night. “Where will you go?”

“Back to Canada. Come with me, Morgana. The resistance needs you.”

Morgana shook her head. “Help me get to bed. I can’t think about this now.”

At her side, Morgause was a strong, warm presence, dangerously close. She hobbled to bed, set both alarms, then stripped off her shorts and shirt, and tumbled into bed in her bra and underwear. 

“Let yourself out,” she gestured towards the door and gave herself over to sleep, not even waiting to watch Morgause leave.

///

Morgana woke up vomiting, heaving up her dreams onto her pillow, onto the black sheet, as the alarm howled dully at her. She stumbled out of bed, wiping her mouth, and slapped at the clock. She was standing there, hunched over, catching her breath, clutching at the dresser, when the sheet curtaining off her sleeping space shifted and Morgause strode in. 

Morgana glared at her, feeling helpless and small as she stood there mostly naked and stinking of vomit, her hostile gaze her only weapon. “I thought I told you to let yourself out last night.” It should have been a threat, but it came out a whine.

Morgause shrugged and moved closer. “I chose not to,” she said softly as she sponged at Morgana’s forehead and chin with a damp washcloth. “I made you coffee and breakfast. Whenever you’re ready.”

It was such an obvious manipulative ploy. But Morgana was too woozy and aching to get mad. “Just . . . just,” Morgana inhaled against the roller-coaster swell of her empty stomach, “just help me to the bathroom.” She gestured at the narrow door two feet away.

///

Later, after she’d injected her morning meds and locked herself in the bathroom and vomited again and showered, then chain-smoked half a pack of cigarettes while leaning out her bedroom window over the street below, she joined Morgause at the kitchen table where she sat nonchalantly reading today’s paper, the arms of her dress still dangling in shreds from her shoulders. Blond hair pulled back to reveal her profile and neck, she looked thin, tired.

“I don’t subscribe to the New York Times,” Morgana said as she poured herself a cup of coffee. She ignored the food: a bowl of fruit, fresh biscuits, and a vegetable omelet. 

Morgause shrugged. “Your first-floor neighbor does.”

“I have to be at the hospital in an hour.” Morgana sat across from her and gulped at her coffee. “So why don’t you say whatever it is you have to say so I can be on my way.”

Morgause smiled as she stood, heaped a plate with food, and pushed it at Morgana. 

“Did you enchant this?”

Morgause shook her head. “Trying to convince you through enchantment would only backfire on me once the enchantment wears off. I wouldn’t have done what I did last night if I didn’t want you to come with me of your own free will.” 

They sat there with the plate of food between them, and Morgana wondered why she wanted to fight Morgause for every inch. And why at the same time she wanted to circle the table, climb into Morgause’s lap, crash their lips together, tug her blonde hair free—soft, glistening, natural, unlike her own poorly dyed blonde—and run her fingers through it, and just fall apart, letting Morgause slip her into her pocket and take her with her, wherever she went. Why another part of her wanted to close her eyes and open them to find Morgause gone, the memory of her sponged clean as if she’d never been. She would blink and return to the Pendragon mansion, maids, cooks, bodyguards surrounding her, drowning out the noise of her mind, only venturing out when protected, when scripted. Maybe she’d even still have Gwen’s hand in hers, Gwen’s warm, soft body in her bed. 

“I got out on good behavior, you know. But do you know what that really means?” Morgana asked flatly, staring at the plate in front of her. “It means keeping your head down no matter what. No matter what horrible things other inmates call you, no matter how many times they knock your tray out of your hand when no one’s looking and you haven’t eaten in hours. No matter how many times the guards strip search you because they’re bored and they think you’re uppity, no matter how loud they pound on your door in the middle of the night for the hell of it, no matter how hard they hit you across the face, punch you in the gut. It means cleaning toilets for ninety-nine cents an hour, stinking like shit and bleach and not being able to shower because it’s not your turn for another twelve hours. It means never touching another woman, not even brushing her hand because the guards suspect you’re a dyke, and if they actually have proof of it, they have one more reason to gleefully harass you. I’d gone so long without touch that it was like I was losing my ability to feel anything under my fingers.”

Morgause stretched her fingers across the table, so they lay in reach of Morgana’s hands. Brown eyes wet with sympathy, she was watching Morgana, waiting for her to move to touch her, and that, Morgana realized, was why Morgause was dangerous, why Morgana wanted to crawl into her skin, and why she wanted to run away from her. Because she understood. She understood and she used that. Morgana curled her fingers into a fist.

“Kidnapping, false imprisonment, aggravated assault, medical negligence, weapons charges, attempted murder,” she rattled off the charges tonelessly. “That got me eighteen years, Morgause.”

Morgause left her hand on the table, palm up. “I know,” she said softly. “I watched the whole trial. It was torture, pure torture to see what they put you through. Especially to see all the injuries you had sustained, and how they didn’t even care, they just kept hauling you out every morning in your wheelchair to sit there as witness after witness railed against you. I barely survived when I made it through the portal after I escaped. And I know, I know it’s not . . . it’s not an excuse, Morgana, for my abandoning you or not finding some way to get you out. But I was in bed for a month with my magic drained out, a broken collarbone and a fractured shinbone. We couldn’t go to the hospital, so we had to heal it all with magic, which took longer. Edwin, you remember him, he said . . . well he firmly refused to let me go to you. He said I wouldn’t survive any attempts to do magic. I wanted to go to you; I wanted to so much.”

“But how can I trust you, Morgause?” Morgana asked softly. “How?” The question fell between them, weighty and open.

“How can we ever trust anyone? You just have to take a leap of faith.”

Shaking her head, Morgana spoke quietly to the table, not meeting Morgause’s eyes. “Look where that landed me the last time.” 

“Morgana,” her voice, so seductive so soothing, pleaded with her to look up. But Morgana knew she’d be lost the first second she met her gaze. “Things will be different this time. Listen, Zillaxia cannot be released upon the general populace. It has hidden poison in it. It will kill off all magic users over the next few years; that’s why CamPharm created it. But it will do so in a way so subtle and varied that no one will be able to connect it to the medicine. They’re trying to wipe out sorcerers entirely. And we can fight them this time. I’ve got a team of resistance fighters I’m working with, we have resources. It’s not just you, me, Cenred, our guns, magic and arrogance. Back then, we were young, rash.” Her steely conviction threatened to sink into Morgana’s skin in a way she knew she’d never be able to shake.

“We even have resistance fighters with us who used to work for Camelot. We know what we’re looking for. We know what we’re dealing with. We just have to access the right laboratories, the right files. We’re going after their information, and we’re going to take it to the UN, take it to the internet, take it to anyone who will listen. If the US Government and President Tregor are found guilty of genocide by a UN tribunal, then things will change. They have to.” She sounded so sure.

“Then why do you need me for this bright and shiny mission you’ll be carrying out? Surely you can change the world without me.”

“Not without a spokesperson we can’t.”

“What did you say? I must have misheard; it seems you think I’m spokesperson material.”

Morgause’s voice was soft, strong. “You were like a princess to the people. Uther’s cherished ward . . .”

“Daughter,” Morgana sneered.

“Yes, well, that was later. Morgana, teenage girls hung pictures of you in their rooms because they wanted to be as flawless and tragic as you were.”

“Teenage girls with CHAD.”

“No, all kinds of teenage girls everywhere. Boys wanted to marry you, be your savior. You were so gorgeous, so poised, yet so scared. We’re going to the UN. We’re going public, and we need a spokesperson. Someone who’s not just the sleazy character who corrupted you and got away. We _need_ you. You’ve meant so much to the public. They’ll rally around you again as soon as you let them.”

Morgana stood, suddenly needing distance from Morgause’s voice, gentle and powerful. “You forget, Morgause,” she spit out, “that I am a criminal whose trial was the most-watched television event of the decade.”

“America loves a comeback. They love to punish and then forgive.”

Morgana shook her head. “No, no. I don’t believe that.”

“It has to be you. The whole movement, we’re on the verge of breaking through, to smash the public’s awareness, to change their hatred of magic once and for all, to recognize who the true enemy is. But we’d get farther so much more quickly if you were the person to bring this to them.”

“You’re mad. You’re truly delusional and idiotically idealistic.” How could anyone speak with such conviction and believe it so thoroughly? “My whole life I’ve been thrust in the public eye whether I wanted it or not. I never had a choice. And now you’re saying I should do that willingly. I hated it. I _hated_ it. So fuck you, Morgause, if you think that’s something I’d ever do again.”

Morgause rose slowly from the table, stalked carefully towards Morgana as if she were a skittish colt, and clasped her hands over Morgana’s forearms. “Then take it back. Take it back on your own terms. Why are you letting the courts and Camelot Pharmaceuticals run your life? It’s _your_ life.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Morgana snapped, pushing forward so she was mere inches from Morgause’s. She wanted to slap that face until Morgause understood. She wanted to lean forward and bite kisses into her lips until she shut up. “Once again, you want me to throw everything I have away for you.” She shrugged her off, crossed the tiny space to snag her cup and pour more coffee, exhaling to steady her heartbeat. “I won’t go back there, Morgause, I won’t. Look at what you’re asking. You’re saying I should break parole, run away with you, to . . . what? Become some kind of public spokesperson? They’d have me extradited and in prison again before you could say Cerebral Hyperactivity Disorder.”

Morgause lifted her chin. “That’s not how I see it, Morgana. I came to you with evidence that this Zillaxia they’re forcing you to start taking will kill you quickly. You ran away with me to save your own life, and for the greater cause of helping other sorcerers. If we can just get the proof, if we can just get the proof to the people, any jury would be on your side.”

“The public _hates_ us. Why would they care if a couple more sorcerers died? If I died?”

“We’ll make them care. We are people; they have to see that. There was a time, back when Nimueh first came into the public eye when the entire public rallied around her. This country was two steps away from civil war over her.”

“And then she escaped and joined a leftist rebellion and they rejected her. How is that any different from what I will be doing? Nimueh was condemned to death and nobody did a single thing to stop it.” She paused. “Well, no one except Uther, who wanted her as his lab rat.”

“The potential is there, you just have to tap into it in the right way, in a way I know _you_ can. Please,” Morgause was pleading now, “please, come away with me. Don’t stay here to die. To let Camelot Pharmaceuticals kill you. Don’t. Of course it’s a risk, of course it is. But isn’t it a risk worth taking?”

Morgana gulped at her coffee and placed it on the counter, hands so jittery she might spill. She didn’t respond.

“A lot of my people think I’m mad to come here and try to recruit you,” Morgause whispered after a minute.

“Then why did you?” 

“Because I couldn’t stay away.” Morgause said gently, crowding in closer so her thighs brushed against Morgana’s where she stood at the counter. “I never could when it comes to you.” And it should have sounded like a line, such a trite line, but when Morgause closed in and uttered the words against the goosebumps shivering to life on Morgana’s neck, it felt real enough to make her breath clench up in her lungs and her heart stammer in her chest and her skin scream with the craving to be touched. Morgana was holding her breath. Stomach somersaulting, she grabbed at the countertop behind her to keep her hands from shaking. 

“Come with me, Morgana,” Morgause whispered, and Morgana could feel heat against the skin under her ear where Morgause’s lips moved as she spoke. “Come back to life with me.”

“I . . . I don’t want to go back there. If I break my parole, I . . . I’m not going back to jail. Not for you, not for anyone,” Morgana stuttered.

Pulling away, Morgause cradled Morgana’s face between her hands. “I can’t promise you won’t get caught. You know that. I can’t promise anything except that we’ll be better together than alone.” Morgause swayed closer so her chest brushed against Morgana’s, her body so warm in the overheated room. 

“The Zillaxia will kill you within three years. I couldn’t stand to lose you again. It would kill me. I want you with me. Together we’ll be amazing.”

“Don’t you get it, Morgause?” Morgana said flatly, swallowing against the tears suddenly welling up in her throat. “It doesn’t matter if the Zillaxia kills me or if I live for twenty more years. I’m already dead.”

Shaking her head, Morgause’s thumbs pressed into Morgana’s cheekbones. “No, never. You’re right here, under my hands.” With achingly slow force, she traced her fingertips down Morgana’s neck, over the lines of Morgana’s arms, and tugged her close, fitting her body against hers, the gauzy fabric of Morgause’s dress swirling against Morgana’s thighs, bare below her frayed cutoff jean shorts, sending shivers running up her skin, heat pulsing tight in her groin. She was going to kiss her, Morgause was finally going to kiss her, and Morgana knew with a twisting certainty in her gut that she wouldn’t stop her.

Something hot was clawing up her throat furiously and Morgana had to beat Morgause to the punch. Teeth bared, she launched herself at Morgause’s lips, shoving their mouths together, taking, because she didn’t feel like giving any more, charging ahead, because she was tired of constantly lagging two steps behind Morgause, behind everyone.

A deep laugh tumbled from Morgause’s throat and she curled her fingers hard into Morgana’s upper arms and opened her mouth under Morgana’s tongue, answering her fierce rhythm with softness as she melted against her, clinging to her arms as though she weren’t the stronger one here. Morgana groaned, moving away from her mouth to nip down her neck, leaving an angry record of where she’d been. She wanted Morgause to fight her, to wrestle her down onto the dirty kitchen floor and pin her with her magic. She wanted Morgause to pull away, rub a hand over her mouth and say no. She didn’t want her this soft and yielding. It felt like Morgause’s body was molding around hers. Morgana latched onto Morgause’s collarbone and bit down hard before clamping her hands around her waist and shoving her away with a grunt.

Despite the clammy heat in her apartment, she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, glaring at Morgause. “And does that count as part of the deal, too?” she asked with a bite.

Morgause smiled tightly, as though something about Morgana saddened her. “It’s on offer.” She lifted her chin, as if saying _come and get it_. “But it’s by no means a condition.”

Morgana bit her lip, nodded, trying to calm the urgency tumbling in her gut. For years, she’d dreamed of kissing Morgause. But she’d never thought she’d have been so angry about it. “I’m going to the hospital now,” she said shakily.

“Okay.”

There was so much Morgana could say: tell her to fuck off, beg her to wait around just to see if she would, tell her she’d think about it, lie to her, make promises she shouldn’t. But in the end she just shrugged and said nothing. She slung her purse over her shoulder and walked out, leaving Morgause alone at the kitchen table.

///


	4. Chapter 3

By the time she entered the hospital, she’d schooled her face to blankness, letting it seep into her mind from there, stilling her thoughts, her jagged breathing. She couldn’t walk in here and think about Morgause, about the pictures she’d shown her that wanted to crawl through her mind, knocking shit over and upturning the order she’d fought so hard to construct in there. She couldn’t think about how her magic had responded to Morgause’s, how it wanted to tear through her skin and join the power swirling in the room, about how everything solid inside her felt like it was cracking, poised to crumble. 

By the time she was sitting, waiting in Dr. Bayard’s office, she just wished she were home, so she could crawl back in bed, pull the sheets over her head and let her mind go blank. The stabbing jabs and dull pounding in her brain formed a backdrop of aches throughout her body. 

Without knocking, he strode in, his face masked by his beard as always, his intern followed, carrying his laptop. 

“Miss Lafayette, how are you today?” he asked, while opening the laptop and sitting at the desk. “Hmm. . .”

Usually Morgana would utter her meaningless, false responses to his equally meaningless questions as he sat at the desk and tapped his pen against his knee or stared at her chart. 

But those answers didn’t come today.

She shrugged. “Tell me, Dr. Bayard, will the side effects of Zillaxia be as excruciating?”

He shook his head, typing on the laptop. “I haven’t read much about Zillaxia’s side effects. I expect they’ll be the same. I’m sure we’ll inform you of them when the time comes in a few months to make the shift. Well, I think that’s all for today, Miss Lafayette. Glad to see you’re still taking all your meds as prescribed. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

///

When Morgana arrived home that afternoon, Morgause had folded herself onto the couch. She was wearing a pair of Morgana’s cutoff jeans that hit just below the butt, and a black camisole that had also come from Morgana’s dresser. She wasn’t wearing her wig; her wavy blond hair hung long and damp about her naked shoulders. Morgana froze at the sight of her, looking like she had during that summer in Newport, soft and approachable, filling up all the silent, empty spaces in her attic studio apartment like she could fill up those spaces in her life, too.

She stood up when Morgana walked in. Kohl rimmed her eyes, and when she smiled, the skin around her eyes crinkled. The fine lines there stood out. Morgana swallowed, glanced at the papers across the couch, the open notebooks, the laptop computer. Her headache drummed a beat behind her eyes.

“What, are you just going to move in now?” she bit out.

Morgause stepped towards her, grin feral and too close. “Something like that,” she said matter-of-factly. “I cleaned this pigsty.”

“ _You_ did?” Somehow Morgana found that hard to believe, given that she’d never seen Morgause lift a sponge. 

Morgause shrugged. “Well, I used magic of course.” She reached for Morgana’s wrist—her fingers were cool against the heat trapped there. “C’mon. There’s something I want to show you.”

Morgana just glared at her. It felt like her gaze was the last line—her only line—of defense against the space Morgause was inhabiting in her apartment. She rubbed her free hand against her forehead. 

“Look, I need a nap before work. I guess that just asking you to leave won’t have much effect?”

Morgause shook her head. “Not really, no.” She tugged Morgana towards the couch. “I found a guy, he’s in Jersey, but I think he can help us out.” She slid onto the couch and patted the space beside her as if Morgana would just drop down, wrap her arms around her waist and peer over her shoulder at the computer screen on her lap. Morgana remained standing. 

“Jeremy Sullivan.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Jeremy Sullivan. He’s going to remove your chip.”

“Remove my chip,” Morgana ground out.

“Your GPS tracking chip,” Morgause explained as if Morgana were being particularly slow.

“I know what my damn chip is.”

“Good, because once it’s removed, we can travel. The teleportation portals are no use to us if you can be tracked through them.”

“Remove my chip, are you mad? That’s not possible,” she said blankly, too tired for any of this.

“Of course it is. Well, it will cost us quite a lot, but he’s done it before, and I think we can trust him. He comes well recommended. He’s located east of Allentown. From there, we can hit the portal planted in Allentown and . . .”

“It might be too much to ask you to leave,” Morgana interrupted, suddenly shrill, her own voice too loud inside her head. “But I need to take a nap before my shift. So please shut the fuck up.”

Morgause looked up from the laptop screen and narrowed her eyes. “How long are you going to resist this, Morgana? Because every day I stay in this city, the more jeopardy I put myself in.”

“I didn’t ask you to come here.”

“But you’re glad I did.”

Morgana shook her head. “Not.”

“You saved my life, Morgana. You could have walked away and let me die, and you didn’t. Because you cared. So it’s no use even trying to pretend anymore.” She placed the laptop aside and stood, crowding into Morgana’s space, radiating heat into Morgana’s skin.

“I know how much you want this. _I know_.” She traced a hand over Morgana’s bare arm, down her forearm, tangling their fingers together. “It’s the only way, don’t you see? We have to move before Zillaxia hits the market. We have less than six months. And you want to waste them sitting here in your apartment pretending nothing’s happening, that nothing’s changed.”

“But it hasn’t!” Morgana felt a voice growing inside her. “Nothing’s changed, Morgause. Just because you showed me some memories, just because you proved to me that you never sold me out, just because you reminded me of what we were? That was before I spent ten years in prison. Before I got out. That’s all that matters to me now. And I’m not going back. I’m not breaking my parole.”

“So you’re content to stay their prized lab rat?” Morgause’s low assessment hung between them for a moment.

Morgana yanked the elastic ties out of her hair, raked her fingers through it, rubbed at her aching, tight scalp. “Have I ever been anything more?”

“You are so much more,” Morgause said softly, stepping closer, brushing the hair back from Morgana’s temple. “You’ll be a champion of the people.”

“I never asked for that. And I don’t want it.”

“Morgana . . .”

“No, I’m taking my nap now.”

Morgana stormed out, wishing that instead of a sheet, she had a door to slam to her bedroom. Remove her chip indeed, as if it weren’t bad enough having the medicines rooting around in her brain. She flopped onto the bed, on top of the covers, and stared at the ceiling. Morgana couldn’t even remember when the damn thing had been inserted into her brain, right at the back of her skull. But she did know that it had practically been a public event; she’d seen the footage of when Uther had taken her on late-night talk shows—he’d also dragged her to the congress floor, to the Republican National Convention, to invited talks at posh new science buildings for private universities—explaining the efficiency of the new tracker, extolling its virtues as he lobbied for mandatory trackers for everyone with the CHAD gene. 

Morgause’s ideas were ludicrous. Morgana’s chip wouldn’t even be taken out of her brain when she died. It would continue to beep under the soil compacted above her dead body, marking the grave of CHAD’s first poster child.

She breathed in and out and waited for sleep to come. It didn’t.

///

When she left the house for work, Morgause was still planted on the couch, sifting through notebooks and papers, typing loudly on her computer, and humming jauntily to herself. Morgana did not say a word to her. Nor did she speak to her when she returned from work—sticky and reeking of stale beer—and shuffled to the kitchen for her injections before falling into bed, where sleep finally found her. 

As she leaned over the toilet the next morning, she felt Morgause’s knuckles against the back of her neck, her fingers soft in Morgana’s short hair at her nape. She handed Morgana a warm washcloth when she stood up, wiping the back of her mouth with her hand. She blinked and swallowed down a _thank you_. This is how it would all begin, the slippery slope of thanking Morgause and then, before she knew it, agreeing with something she said off-handedly, followed by discussing some half-cocked plan with her and finding her ideas sound, and finally, running away with her, abandoning everything she’d worked for.

The plan for dealing with Morgause was simple—She just refused to engage. She left the apartment in the mornings for her circus act of doctors’ appointments and avoided it all afternoon. Only after working her shift at the club, after her body was so numb that her mind could barely think, when she knew she would no linger over the curve of Morgause’s lips, the curl of her hair, the strength behind her gaze, only then would she let herself quietly turn the key in the lock, slip past Morgause where she was messing about with tomorrow’s breakfast by the kitchen table, or buried deep in papers and maps on the couch, or sometimes just sitting silently and expectantly in the armchair, waiting for Morgana, gaze boring into her.

So she let the hours become days of quiet, strained coexistence. Morgause seemed to be dancing an elaborate act around her, positioning herself in the corners and cracks of Morgana’s life, striving to silently orchestrate her undoing, planning for the moment that Morgana would just open her fists and let go of the ropes from which she dangled. As if everything that chained her, fixed her to that city, that life, that job would just magically dissolve if Morgana only let it.

///

The two trees on her South Philly block, scrawny things that did nothing to alleviate the solid walls of brick and concrete and stained siding trapping heat in the narrow street, were dying, starved for water. Morgana’s gaze flickered over them as she trudged home after her appointment with Judith. Judith with her sharp eyes and soft voice. This time she had suggested a kitten. _“You know, I can sign off on the paperwork for you to adopt a pet. It might be just the thing you need, a little ball of fluff to love.”_ But Morgana had just bit her lip and shook her head. The last thing she needed was _something to love_. 

The list of restrictions Judith had gone over with her in their very first meeting after Morgana had gotten out was extensive. _As a registered CHAD offender, and especially such a high profile one, there are certain lifestyle restrictions you have to abide by. No part-time or full-time work without permission from your parole officer. No pets, no volunteer work, no sports club memberships. There are other things that even I cannot sign off on—no work with children or other CHAD sufferers._

No friends, no life, nothing to live for. It didn’t matter much. _What, are they afraid I’m going to perform ritualistic sacrifices on cats?_ she had scoffed. 

She unlocked the building’s main door, sticky in the oppressive heat. It stuck in its frame, so she threw her shoulder into it, and climbed the narrow stairwell sorely in need of a paint job. She swallowed, her steps dragged; she could feel the impending weight of Morgause’s presence in the flat. 

It had been two weeks now. Two weeks of Morgause hovering, taking up space in Morgana’s apartment and life. She should kick her out. But it was hard to convince her she was going to call the police after having saved life. And physical violence would do her no good. Morgause had the full blazing power of magic at her fingertips—her fists were puny in comparison. Ideas—ways to eject Morgause from her life—bounced around in her tired brain like bright neon fireworks, distracting, empty, useless.

Morgause had inserted herself into Morgana’s inertia, and she had no idea how to get her out.

As she approached the door to her apartment, Morgause’s voice floated out through the wood. 

Morgana paused, keys clenched in her sweaty hand.

“I’ll come back when I’ve got her with me and not before then.” Her voice was low and molasses-sweet in a way that few people would recognize as angry.

“Do you honestly think I don’t know what timeline we’re working with here?”

“You do not get to decide what’s right for the organization.” 

“My safety is immaterial. Without her, the strike won’t work. The resistance won’t work. Do you really think you could spearhead this resistance?” She laughed, caustic, harsh. “The public will have nothing but disdain for you.”

There was a long pause. Morgana leaned forward, wondering if Morgause had walked away from the door.

“Of course I’m right. I’ve been doing this much longer than you have.”

Another pause, her voice grew muffled. “No this is . . . not that you would . . .” She was pacing now. 

Her voice faded. Morgana slumped against the wall, not wanting to wonder. Letting herself wonder who was on the other end would be the beginning of the end.

The even tempo of footsteps: Morgause’s voice returned, speaking more quickly now.

“No, no. Absolutely not. How many times do I have to tell you, if she won’t listen to me, she certainly won’t listen to you. You’d do better to stay in the background until we’re at the camp. I know you don’t like taking orders from me,” there was a grimace in her voice now, “but you’ve got no choice in this. Aglain agrees with me. It’s two to one. Stand down.” 

Morgana sighed, tempted to slide down the wall, crouch there outside the apartment door, a stranger, an eavesdropper in her own apartment. This was the one space she’d managed to carve out for herself—shoddy and cramped though it was, it was her home, her cracked linoleum, her low rafters and exposed dark beams, her heating that barely worked in the winter, her window-ledge that was wide enough to pretend it was a roof-deck, her pepto-bismal pink kitchen cabinets, her overflowing ashtrays, her fridge of beer and injections. 

She shouldered her purse and tip-toed away, avoiding the creaking fourth step on her way back down to the door, walking into the stinking wall of heat outside. She had hoped to nap before her shift, but she’d walk to work instead, follow the deserted bike path along the Delaware River all the way through the city, with only the occasional feral cat and drowsy homeless man to notice her.

///

Morgana fumbled for the pack of cigarettes she kept in the low bookshelf by the bedroom window: five left. The nausea stayed at a low murmur this morning, so she clambered into the window and lit one. It was her day off and today she would stay here until either she figured out what to do about Morgause or she ran out of cigarettes. 

Of course she ran out of cigarettes first. Sighing, she slipped inside.

Fuck Morgause and her fruit salads every morning. Morgana had three more hours before she had to be at the hospital. Spending them in bed sounded like the best thing to do. 

But she needed to take her meds or her system would tilt completely off-balance. So, without changing her pajamas, she pulled back the sheet cordoning off her bedroom, and braced herself for an encounter with Morgause.

Morgause wasn’t alone at the kitchen table. A large-chinned man with deep-set brown eyes and large ears framing a floppy dark-haired crew cut sat next to her, chatting softly and drinking coffee. He smiled at Morgana. 

Her pulse ratcheted into high-gear, breathing became difficult, and she scanned the kitchen for a weapon; a cutting board and fruit knife lay by the sink. 

“What the fuck, Morgause?” she spat out, inching closer to the sink. She didn’t even bother to address the man.

“Morgana, listen.” Morgause held out one hand, speaking in that soft voice that could tame skittish horses and talk someone down from a ledge.

Morgana snarled at her, heartbeat slamming in her chest now. She took another step forward. “Listen? Who the fuck is this?” She jerked her chin at the man who stood from the table, deep-set eyes quietly assessing.  
“He’s here to help us.”

“Oh really?” 

“Ms. LeFay, let me introduce myself,” the man spoke, straightening. He was tall and much too large for her kitchen. 

She reached for the knife on the counter and spun on him. She imagined herself sticking it —puny though it was—into his throat. 

“Morgana, put the knife down.” Morgause’s voice was almost hypnotic. 

She turned on her, wielding the knife in her direction, feeling the power of it. “How dare you?”

Morgause sighed, rolled her eyes, and flicked her wrist, a soft wave of magic twined around Morgana’s arm and tugged the knife out of her hand. It floated back to the counter.

“Morgana, will you stop being rash? Just for once? This is Gilli Porter. He’s going to deactivate the chip in your head.”

“Deactivate my chip?” She laughed hollowly. “And three weeks ago it was Jeremy Sullivan who was going to remove it. No one is going the fuck near my brain or near my chip. No one is . . .”

“Gilli’s work is better than Jeremy’s,” Morgause railroaded right over Morgana’s words, excitement glittering in her dark eyes. “He’s a very hard man to track down, but he came highly recommended.”

“My work is mostly non-invasive, Ms. LeFay,” he said softly. “I can hack into the chip and and permanently re-route its signal. The whole procedure takes less than an hour. And then your tracking device is rendered useless. Chip removal is a thing of the past.”

Morgana wanted to slam her fist into his face. Why was he still in her apartment?

“Morgause, no,” she said loudly. “No, we are _not_ doing this. I am not going with you; I am not letting someone hack in my brain. Ten years of jail time was enough for me.” 

“There won’t _be_ any more jail time, Morgana. That’s what we’re trying to tell you. You’ll be whisked away, off their grid before they even know it.”

“And you just decided that this morning was the morning you were going to convince me to leave, is that it? Just kidnap me away from my own life here?”

“Life?” Morgause asked softly, inquisitively. “You call this a life? You’ve made yourself completely numb. Convinced yourself there’s nothing to live for, so you don’t _live_. You’re turning yourself into one of the undead that I can pull from the ground.”

“And so you treat me like one of them! I do not exist solely to do your bidding!”

“Do my bidding?” Morgause sounded shocked. She shook her head. “No. I’m offering you equal partnership, the chance to help me, to work with me.”

“So that’s why you dragged this hack in here to fiddle around in my brain? Because you’re offering me _equal partnership_?” The words tasted acidic against her tongue.

“Oh so he’s a hack? But the doctors the system sets up, the ones who insert a tracking device into your skull are trustworthy?” The calmness radiating from Morgause—the same calmness she’d been wearing since the day she fell in step alongside Morgana, the same calmness that never drained from her face—was taking up too much space, crowding Morgana out of her own apartment. 

“They’re hacks, too, but I have _no choice_!” she screamed, then, voice crumbling at the end.

Morgause stepped closer, brushing soft fingertips over Morgana’s jaw. “You always have a choice. Always.” She spoke gently, and Morgana wondered if she were casting spells on her, after all her words about wanting Morgana to come of her own free will, if she were weaving a web around her after all. 

Everything tightened impossibly inside her.

“Then why can’t you accept my choice, Morgause? Why can’t you accept this choice? _That I will never come with you._ ”

Morgause stared at her, through her, not breaking eye contact. “Never?”

“I will not be your toy, your spokesperson doll to hold up for one more cause. Just tinker in her brain until she’s fixed, pull her string, listen to her talk. I’m done with being a poster child. I’m done with media.” She exhaled, felt the heat draining from her. 

“I’m done with uselessly trying to fight a system that can’t be torn down,” she said more quietly. “I’m done with following your orders. I’m done with believing in you and your ideals. You almost got me killed once before, Morgause. I’d be mad to trust with you anything, . . . let alone my freedom, again.”

For a long moment, they just stared at each other. It felt imperative not to look away, never to look away, to stare this out. 

Shoes shuffled against linoleum, reminding Morgana of Gilli’s presence.

Finally, Morgause broke the stare, held up both hands and nodded. “Okay, okay, you win,” she whispered. She turned to face Gilli, who was staring quite determinedly at the floor. “I’ll show you out, Gilli. I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.”

Morgana nodded curtly. She picked up the glass of iced coffee that was sweating condensation all over the table and turned her back on them. Two sets of footsteps retreated, the apartment door opened and closed. She watched the glass quivering in her hand, sipped her coffee, heard Morgause return, move closer, but didn’t turn to face her.

She drained the glass of coffee, felt a hand on her shoulder, and another winding around her waist. The weight of Morgause’s body pressed against her back. And it should have been too much in this stifling heat. But it wasn’t. They stood like that for a long time. 

She should shake her off. But she didn’t. She closed her eyes and let herself feel it, feel all of it: Morgause’s hand on her belly, cheek pressed against her hair, her breathing pushing in and out against Morgana’s back. It would have taken just one quick turn for Morgana to be in her arms. 

Finally, Morgause spoke, breath tickling over Morgana’s ear. “I thought I could resurrect you.” Her hand tightened over Morgana’s stomach.

“I thought I could resurrect you,” she repeated, “like you resurrected me there on your living room rug. Don’t make me give up on that, Morgana. Don’t make me give up on you.” 

“But you should,” Morgana whispered after a moment. 

“Is that really what you want?”

 _No._

“Yes.” Her throat closed around the word.

Shifting so her cheek lay against the naked skin of Morgana’s neck, Morgause waited a long moment before she spoke again, a smile lingering in her voice. “I remember the day you discovered your element was fire. After we’d slowly drained the drugs from your system, made you whole, healthy. And then your magical flame burst from you. You were radiant with light, gleeful as you blasted fireballs, leaving scorch marks all across the pavement of that parking lot outside my apartment.” She turned her head, lips cool against the knobs of Morgana’s spine. She was kissing her there, gently mouthing over the back of Morgana’s neck. “You were so alive.”

Morgana closed her eyes, tried to ignore the quaking in her legs, the slithering heat settling in her groin.

“But now that you’ve gone back on the meds,” Morgause continued, “now that they’ve locked away your magical fire, your prophetic dreams, they’ve gotten all of it, haven’t they? All your fire, all your dreams. Not just the magic ones.”

It would be so easy to sink into Morgause’s warmth, let it hold her up. Morgana swallowed and straightened.

“I spent ten years in prison hating you,” she admitted softly. “I don’t know if I can stop.”

The words—a half-lie that Morgana herself didn’t quite feel the truth behind—hung between them in the stifling air.

Morgause’s other hand reached around from her shoulder, so both her arms cradled Morgana to her. 

“Is that all?” 

She tugged Morgana closer, the naked skin of their shoulders, exposed under camisole and tanktop, pressed together.

“No.”

“What then?” she coaxed after a minute.

“I . . . I promised myself I would never rely on anyone again. I’ve spent my whole life depending on people and in prison I finally learned independence.”

“Independence doesn’t mean you have to be alone, Morgana.”

“No, but even if I wanted to trust you . . .” Morgause’s fingertips were tracing circles in the fabric stretched over Morgana’s stomach now. Her breath caught in her chest. “Even if I wanted to trust you, which I don’t,” she added hurriedly, “I can’t. I don’t know how to anymore.”

“Yes, you do,” Morgause murmured into her neck. “It’s as easy as letting go.”

Morgana turned in her arms then, let Morgause’s hands slip to her lower back, rocking their pelvises together.

“Letting go means falling, Morgause. That’s one thing I will not do again.” She gripped Morgause’s wrists and tugged them off her lower back, stepping away.

“So, that’s it then?” Morgause said quietly.

“Yes, that’s it.”

Morgause nodded. “Do you want me to leave you alone, Morgana?”

“Yes,” Morgana’s voice cracked on the simple syllable. “Yes, please leave me alone.”

“Morgana, I . . .” Morgause let her hands fall to her side, unsmiling. “I‘ve . . . I’ve made a lot of mistakes where you are concerned. From the very beginning, back when I wormed my way into your life in Rhode Island.”

 _Mistakes_? Yes, for sure. But Morgana couldn’t remember the last time she had heard Morgause admit to being wrong. 

“Maybe I told you too much. Gave you knowledge without power, back when I told you about your mother, or maybe I told you too little, gave you knowledge, but failed to show my . . . my feelings for you. I’ve always held so much back with you.” She looked down, tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “God,” she laughed, “it would have sounded so foolish, telling you the truth, then. Telling you how you’ve always been . . . I mean how I’ve . . . I’ve always felt something between us. You were the holy grail to Nimueh, the daughter she just had to get back, the heir to her magic, to her power. I was just, I was just the apprentice she raised, adept, skilled, but not meaningful . . .” She shrugged, and Morgana quelled the impulse to step back into her space and pull her close, because this, these words sounded raw and new on Morgause’s lips. “And then Nimueh died in that foolish rescue attempt and I wanted you even more. It was like her ghost was hounding me, whispering at me to finish what she’d started. It wasn’t about you at all, really. But then, then I met you. I met you and you were just vibrating with life and need and _feeling_. And I wanted, I wanted so much . . . from you. But then, of course I told myself I couldn’t have you, not in the way I really wanted. I couldn’t have all of you. You had Gwen. . . . I thought you might have been my half-sister.” She laughed dryly. “So I stepped back. I failed you by not giving you everything right away. By not letting you in completely.”

Morgana shifted backwards, her mind short-circuiting, heart racing.

“But you, Morgana, you were all I ever wanted. You still are.” Her weak fragile words seemed to break in the air between them. “I think you’ve always been the key for me, and I wish I’d just seen it earlier. I wish I hadn’t run to Cenred as soon as the summer was over and you and Gwen flew back to New York. I wish I hadn’t kept dragging him deeper and deeper into the whole mess. I wish I hadn’t let him leave you there. It’s always been you. Just you. The missing piece for the spell I want to weave over the world. I don’t know if any of this is possible without you.” She stood there, arms cradling her own elbows, like a brittle statue that might shatter to pieces in Morgana’s apartment and Morgana couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe, because _this_ was not what she had expected Morgause to say, to ever say. 

“But I’m going to try it anyway, that spell I want to weave over the world, that spell of awakening. Because that’s what I do. I’ve got a resistance to lead. And I don’t give up, Morgana. And I’m sorry that you have. I blame myself for that. I failed you.”

Her quiet, throaty voice felt wrong, sounded dubbed-over, like noises that shouldn’t be coming from Morgause, and they stung Morgana’s flesh in a way that nothing else from Morgause ever had. Haughtiness, smugness, aloofness—these were the things Morgana associated with Morgause’s larger-than-life presence in her drab apartment, these were the things that Morgana could walk out on every morning. 

Morgause moved forward now, colliding with Morgana’s space, brushing her lips over Morgana’s cheek, fingering her hair, running her hands over the goosebumps on her arms. Morgana stood stock still. She daren’t breathe, she daren’t speak, she daren’t move for fear she’d throw herself into Morgause’s arms.

“Goodbye, Morgana.” 

Morgana nodded curtly, eyes fixed on the ground, not trusting herself to move.

“All right. You’d better get to your appointment, then.” 

Footsteps carried her away. The door opened. The door closed. And she was gone.

Pinpricks, needles sliding into her veins, and nine pills—Morgana ingested her meds, washed it all down with another glass of iced coffee from the pitcher in the fridge. 

Morgana stared blankly at the closed door for a long time before getting dressed.

///

Her appointments finished, Morgana bolted up the sagging staircase to her apartment, heart in her throat. Morgause wouldn’t really be gone; she had to have come back. 

After all these days, these weeks of dogging Morgana’s heels, she couldn’t just leave like that. But she had. 

Her laptop had disappeared, and the usual sprawl of papers on the couch was gone.

Morgana pressed the heels of her palm into her eyes, pushing back the sudden throbbing headache bursting behind her brow. _This is what I wanted,_ she told herself firmly. _Absolutely what I wanted._

“What I fucking wanted,” she said aloud, and then stomped over to the fridge while tearing open a new package of cigarettes.

Three bottles of beer. 

That was just enough not to add to the nausea her meds would inflict on her in the morning, just enough not to endanger the delicate balance of chemicals that pounded through her brain, through her blood.

But not nearly enough to calm down the high-speed chase tumbling through her veins, to slow the frantic beating of her heart, to quiet the traitorous voices in her mind.

She looked at the clock. Four o’clock. She had nowhere to be, nothing to do until tomorrow morning at eleven a.m. Maybe she could push her chemistry just a touch. Just this once.

The state store down the street closed at six. She hadn’t had any whiskey since she had been sent to prison. Maybe it was time she celebrated it properly. And celebrated her newfound independence from Morgause.

Half an hour later, she toasted that independence with a half-bottle of flat ginger ale mixed with Banker’s Club whiskey.

Drinking the mixture straight from the plastic soda bottle and refilling it with whisky as it emptied, she sat in her window all evening, tucked away in the roof, listening to the car horns at rush hour, the clip-clop of high heels teetering into bars shortly afterwards, the frenetic teenaged laughter of eight p.m., the drunk curses and sloppy come-ons that followed last call, the tire wheels squealing away in the small hours long after midnight. She listened intently to the angry pulse of the hot city on a summer night, and tried, with each swig, to block out Morgause and her gentle hands. She tried to wipe out the break in Morgause’s voice when she had said she wanted her. If only memories were as easy to delete as computer files, if only images were easy to puke out of her system as her dreams were.

If only they could invent a drug that made you not _want_ the magic.

At some point in the night, the anger of the city faded, only the occasional lonely tread of solitary footsteps, or the clatter and sigh of a bus rang out. Morgana picked up the whiskey. 

Half the bottle was gone. 

It was going to wreak havoc on her system in the morning, and she was not drunk enough to not care. 

She had not taken her meds for the night, and she was not drunk enough to not care about that either. 

Morgause had left her, and she was not drunk enough to not care.

She frowned and drank straight from the bottle. If she was going to try and erase her memories _herself_ —she might as well make a decent go of it.

///

Morgana woke up on her side, stomach summersaulting through her esophagus. Bile ran down her chin, her throat and mouth felt scorched. She pushed herself up on shaking elbows, wincing at the stabs of awareness lancing through her temples, down the back of her neck, through the labyrinth of her gut. With great effort and a half-animal groan, she propped her torso up and stared at a brown-yellow mess of fluid on the pillow. She’d been puking in her sleep. 

_Morgause’s long wet hair under a helmet. Morgause stripping off a leather jacket. A Kevlar vest._

Dry-heaving, she watched as a thin stream of rusty blood dribbled out of her lips and joined the spreading stain on the pillow.

It was gone. Ejected from her mind with the blood and bile staining her sheets. 

She wiped the back of her sand-scraped mouth with her hand, and shook her head, the motion hammering nails along her scalp. Her tongue was thick inside her mouth, the shaking in her hands exaggerated and out-of-control.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered to no one. Hard liquor and her meds did not mix. How many times would she have to relearn that lesson? Her tolerance stopped at three beers, or two glasses of wine, or one shot of alcohol. Not a whole fucking bottle. Her insides seethed, and if she did not make it to the bathroom soon, she would have more than stomach bile staining her sheets.

The few feet to the bathroom door stretched out in front of her. She sucked in a breath, tried not to think about the slivers of knives shredding her guts, the hammer tap-tap-tapping at her brain, the uncontrollable energy running through her hands and arms like an electric current.

Morgause would not be waltzing in, cool glass of water and washcloth in hand. That fact Morgana remembered well enough. She did not remember leaving the window, climbing into bed, peeling off her clothes and tossing them about the room.

No Morgause to the rescue this morning. That was fine. Morgana did not need her.

She planted her feet on the floor by her mattress, then, using her hands to scale her dresser, pushed herself to a crouched almost-standing position. She waited for the spots raining into her vision and the disco lights spinning in her head to ease. She had done fine on her own for months before Morgause had ever shown up.

 _Keep your eyes on the bathroom door, eyes on the prize_. One foot in front of the other. She released her death grip on the dresser.

Left hand trailing along hanging bedsheet, feet clumsy, she stumbled toward the door. An angry wave pummeled through her guts, caused her to double over, pausing hunchbacked, unable to move forward.

Make it to the door, make it to the door, her mind chanted, in chorus with stupid, stupid, stupid.

Halfway across the room, her legs gave out on her. Vision tunneling narrowly, going dark around the edges, she tumbled to the floor, taking down the curtain that partitioned off her bedroom with her. On all fours, panting, head hung low, inhaling noisy desperate breaths through her nose and out her mouth, she stayed there, swaying for a minute, for an hour, until her stomach locked up, her throat closed and she dry-heaved again and again, spit dribbling down her chin, falling drop by drop to the rug. 

_Fuck_.

She stared at the growing pool of spit in front of her. How far away was her phone? 

She would make it to the bathroom, she had to. It was that or 911, and her phone was too far away for 911. Just get up off your knees, just a few more steps. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

This was the stupidest way to violate her parole. By drinking too much, by failing to take her meds, by dying in a pool of her own vomit. This was _not the way_ . . . 

She would stand up and make her way to the bathroom. In just a minute. A minute, after the knives stopped serrating her guts. . . . 

_Morgana is sitting in a diner booth. The vinyl seat sticks to her thighs, a plate of limp meatloaf, congealed gravy, and sad powdered mash potatoes stare at her from the formica table top._

_“Eat your dinner, Morgana.” She jerks her gaze up to find Gaius sitting across from her, eyebrow arched in stern reproof. The creases and frowning valleys etched into his face, the thin hair, and watery eyes send a jolt through her. Of course he is here. Gaius has always been here. Yes, she has to do what Gaius says. That is why he is here, sitting with her, because she has been misbehaving, because she has been acting out._

_She stares down at her plate, and it looks back at her, unchanged. It is perhaps the most unappetizing thing she has ever been asked to stomach._

_“I don’t want to eat it, Gaius.”_

_He shakes his head. “Just eat it, Morgana. You need to keep up your strength. It’s healthy food. There’s nothing wrong with it.”_

_“You don’t think it’s gone bad?” How long has the plate been sitting there? How long have they been in this diner? What state are they in? Does she have a public appearance coming up, is that why they are here?_

_She runs a hand through her hair. “How much time do we have? I don’t think there’s enough time to eat this if I’ve got to get through hair and makeup.”_

_Gaius shakes his head, bright eyes not leaving hers. “We’re not leaving until you eat. It doesn’t matter if you’re late for hair and makeup, you have to eat.” She cringes and looks away._

_“I don’t want it.”_

_“But you ordered it.”_

_“No, I didn’t. I’m sure I didn’t.” She lifts her chin and glares back at him, breath constricting in her chest. He is wrong, she is sure he is wrong. She wouldn’t have ordered meatloaf, she is sure of it._

_They eye each other, neither blinking in the dim, yellow light of the diner._

_“She’s right, you know. She didn’t order it.”_

_Morgana glances up to see a familiar woman—tall, maroon dress hugging her curves, dark curls of black hair dangling over her shoulder. She’s wielding a pot of coffee in her hand, brandishing it like a weapon, shaking it at Gaius’ head as she speaks._

_“Do you want more coffee, hon?” The woman spins, fixes her with deep blue eyes. At least this woman remembers that Morgana hadn’t asked for the meatloaf._

_She shakes her head. “Do I . . . do I know you?”_

_The woman grins. “Of course you do.” She refills Morgana’s coffee cup._

_“Morgana!” Gaius’ sharp voice cuts through their conversation. “We’ll be late to the press conference if you don’t finish your dinner.”_

_She tilts her head towards the woman who is dressed far too finely to be a waitress here, but holds a coffee pot nonetheless. “But the woman here says I didn’t order it. Can I please order something else?”_

_“Morgana,” he leans forward, his wrinkled hand closing over hers where it is wrapped around her warm mug of coffee. “This woman is wrong.” He is speaking with such soft certainty, the tone he always used to convince her. “You did order it. I saw you. You chose this.”_

_She tosses her head._

_“Morgana, don’t lie to me. Just eat your food,” he coaxes._

_“I’m not . . .”_

_“Eat it.”_

_Morgana sighs and picks up her knife and fork, slices the meatloaf into little crumbling, soggy bits._

_“Don’t play with it, Morgana, eat it.”_

_She lifts a bite to her mouth. Gravy drools off her fork and she grimaces._

_“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The waitress is speaking to her and refilling her coffee cup again, which has somehow emptied even though Morgana has not drunk a sip._

_She kneels down, crouches forward, putting her face on the same level as Morgana’s. “It’s poison,” she whispers conspiratorially. “They’re trying to poison you, Morgana. You have to escape.”_

__Oh God, it was true. It was all true. _Morgana gasps, clutching at her throat, at the screaming speed of her heart in her chest. She has to get out, get up, get away from Gaius. He smiles at her, shows a flash of tooth under the curl of his lips._

_“They’re going to kill you one day, very soon. It’s coming.” The woman’s smile is turning into a grimace, and suddenly she has to get away, get far away from all of them, from all of this._

_Across the table, Gaius gives her the stink eye. Can’t he hear the things this woman is saying?_

_She stands from her crouch, towering above the two of them. Her gaze slides over Gaius, who continues to frown at Morgana, ignoring the waitress. She places the coffeepot on the table, squares her hands over her hips. It is a gesture that looks smug, powerful. “They’re coming for you. Look what they’ve already done to you. You have to escape.”_

_Gaius is tapping his fingers, apparently not hearing their entire conversation._

_“Morgana,” Gaius’ stern voice breaks through her inertia, “if you do not eat your dinner. I shall have to have you strapped down again and force fed through a tube down your throat. It’s for your own good.”_

_She shakes her head. But as she reaches for her coffee, her hand passes through the mug and the diner around them vanishes. The woman with the deep blue eyes has disappeared. In their place is a long stretcher set up with bags of fluid and IVs._

_Across the table from her, Gaius arches his eyebrow. “We shall have to strap you to the stretcher and put that tube down your throat.” She sees the straight jacket, the straps, the wide tube that winds its way from the bed to the plate of meatloaf on the table._

_“No,” she bangs on the table with her fist._

Her eyelids felt heavy, pennies were weighing them down, and a rattling knocking was coming from somewhere far far away. She struggled to open her eyes. The world and the heaving wrenching agony of pain tunneled back into foggy focus. Something crashed, a tearing, splintering sound that did not stop. 

She was lying on the floor, staring at the curtain crumpled on the ground. She tried to turn her head, but it was too heavy. Footsteps slamming towards her—it had to be the doctors come to strap her to the stretcher and shove the meatloaf down her throat through a tube—she needed to turn her head to look at them, to tell them she wouldn’t eat it. 

And the world tunneled away again.

///


	5. Chapter 4

Morgana’s body ached. The pain jolted her awake, muscles burning, and pulsing, sharp jabs thrusting against the inside of her skull and the back of her neck. Something beeped, once, loudly. Her phone, maybe? It wasn’t her alarm, so that meant she wasn’t late for anything. 

Keeping her eyes closed, she told the pain to go away and tried to settle back into the murkiness of sleep.

Nearby a door opened and footsteps shuffled over to her. Someone wrapped a cool hand around her wrist. She startled and opened her eyes. A stranger, a short woman in blue scrubs, hair scraped into a thin bun, was fiddling with something on her wrist. An IV, Morgana realized. If her whole body hadn’t been wrapped in a seething coal-bed of pain, Morgana would have been concerned.

The woman’s hands stilled, and Morgana looked up to see her staring at her with a flinty-eyed look of contempt. “Missed two medication dosages. Alcohol poisoning. Dehydration. Your kind never make it on your own. I don’t know whose brilliant idea it was to let you lot roam the streets. Locked up. That’s where you all belong. Less of a drag on our system.” She turned away. “I’ll tell the doctor you’re awake.”

So it was the hospital, then. It would have been so nice if Morgana had forgotten the whole incident, forgotten everything that had brought her here. Unfortunately, her mind was not that kind to her. 

Experimentally she twitched her fingers and lifted the hand without the IV to press the palm of it into her temple. 

Alone again.

///

Morgana floated in and out on waves of pain and timelessness. Whatever was in the IV drip bag was hitting her hard, tinkering with her mind and her perceptions. At least she thought it was. Everything—her vision, her memory, her waking moments, her sleeping ones, her sense of time—felt tilted and out of focus, like experiencing it all through the hazy filter of a flashback in a movie. 

She was not sure how many … hours? days? … she had been trapped, prone and listless, on the narrow hospital bed, when she was aware for the first time of Dr. Bayard standing over her, bushy caterpillar eyebrows drawn together, frowning up at the chart on the wall next to her bed.

He noticed her gaze. “Ah, you’re awake.”

She blinked at him. 

“Hi,” she croaked, rather unenthusiastically.

“Vitals all look good. Bloodwork looks good since going on the higher dose of the Ardoran. How do you feel?”

“Hazy, nauseous, in pain . . . like I’m having a bad trip.”

He drummed his fingers on the edge of the chart, high above her. “Yes, well that’s the unfortunate side-effect of the higher dosage. Works incredibly effectively, but prevents patients from performing any high-functioning tasks. We can’t keep outpatients on this dosage. The side effect should improve incrementally as your body adjusts to the new dosage, though.”

“Why the new dosage?” she sputtered.

“Why not?” he replied with a stabbing flippancy. “Since you’ll be here for awhile, we might as well put you on the most effective dosage. You won’t need to be doing any high-functioning activities while you’re here.”

“Can you give me something for this splitting headache? It won’t let me sleep.” She wasn’t sure if she had been sleeping or not, but she thought she had not been.

He shook his head. “You’re not authorized for pain medication.”

“But can’t you authorize that?” She tried to sit up straighter in the tilted bed.

“No, it’s part of your parole deal. It’s out of my control.”

He turned to the desk and keyed something into his laptop and then turned back to the chart. “Since you seem more cognizant than I’ve seen you in the past week, I might as well inform you now that you are not going to be released; you are going to be transferred.”

Morgana’s pulse thundered through her. She wondered if she were asleep. “Transferred?”

He nodded. “It’s a condition of the parole. Willful violation results in institutionalization at a CHAD facility.”

Her lungs were full, there was no space to breathe, and she desperately hoped she was dreaming. She had to be. “I don’t remember that being in the terms of my parole.”

“Well, it is.” He shrugged. “But it’s not a big concern. All it does is move the date of your transfer up by a few months.”

“But . . . but it was one tiny slip-up. I just got drunk, for fuck’s sake.”

He returned to the laptop at the desk by her bed, clicked something. “Those are the terms.”

Morgana grasped around in her mind for something, someone who could explain this. “Where’s Judith? I want to see Judith.”

“Judith? Ah, yes, your former parole officer. Ms Simmons. The nurse can put a request in for an appointment visit with her.”

“Am I asleep? Am I dreaming?” 

He furrowed his brows, still not looking away from his laptop. “It seems the medication is having a stronger effect than I thought it would.”

“Well, am I?” He frowned, and she repeated herself, her tone high and reedy in the air between them.

“Dreaming? No.” The word sunk to the bottom of her mind, resting there, unavoidable, ugly. 

He moved to leave.

“Wait.” She strained to piece her thoughts into words. “What you said earlier, what do you mean it moves _up_ the date of my transfer?”

He nodded. “It will be a stipulation of your new treatment under Zillaxia. Come January, the doctors at Camelot Pharmaceuticals wanted you transferred to their care. I just learned about it myself a few days ago.” He shrugged. 

“But their headquarters are in New York.”

“Yes, they want you as an in-patient subject at their facility there.”

So her freedom had been ticking down since day one. She wanted to ask him again if she were asleep, but if she were dreaming then she would never trust the Bayard in her head to tell her the truth, and if she weren’t dreaming, then she wouldn’t want the real Bayard to know how fucked up her mind truly was. 

“Can you reduce the dosage of my medication to what it was before?”

“Well there’s no reason _not_ to keep you on the higher dose while you’re here. It’s more effective, and, as I said, you’re not going to work or doing any other high-functioning tasks right now. Your mind will adjust to it over time, mental clarity should eventually return to some degree.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Six days.”

“When can I see Judith? I want to see Judith.”

“I’ll tell the nurse to put in a request.”

He looked at the clock and its glowing red colon. “I’m late. I’m seeing patients in twenty minutes. I have to get back to my office. The nurses will be able to take care of all your future needs.”

He turned and left.

 _In-patient_ , _stipulation of your new treatment_ —the sounds were too big, too slippery for the fumbling, useless instrument that was her mind right now. Words that wrote over other echoes in her head in thick black marker, blotting out the way the word _good behavior_ had used to feel as she lay in darkness listening to the breathing of her cellmates, fingers balled into a fist over her heart; destroying the sound _parole_ had made when she whispered it softly to herself, the exhale of the _p_ a promise, a sigh, a dream. She had whittled away everything else—the family who had lied to her, the treatment that had beat her down, the memories that had stung like trapped hornets, the inmates who had shoved and picked and prodded at her—with slow, smooth strokes of the razor edge of her mind, she had shaved away everything she was. For the promise of freedom. She would behave, she would jump through their hoops, she would stand up on her hind legs and beg, if only they would release her again, let her sleep in her own bed, lock the door at night herself, do all these things alone. All the promises and the humiliations she had forced herself to twist her mind around were for something that was now turning out to be just one more lie.

She had never been free. All she had ever had was her choice of captor. The thought exploded in her foggy mind like a bomb. Parole had been nothing more than a cruel joke to reel her in, so she would waltz back into their cage when they wanted.

Morgana needed to focus, needed to get out. Pressing two hands to her temples, she tried to take stock of her room. It was set up for two patients—narrow twin beds divided by a thin metal curtain—with a door to a bathroom in the far corner. No sharp objects, no unbarred exits. She glanced down, noticed the restraint straps hanging limply on the bed’s frame. 

_You always have a choice._ Morgana clung to the memory of Morgause’s voice, clung to the way she had said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. Shut her eyes against the other words bouncing in her mind. 

This was her choice, her only choice: internment in the Camelot Labs as they flooded her veins with Zillaxia or escape with Morgause, wherever that would lead.

She needed to get at her phone, send a one-word text. _Out_. That ought to do it. Morgana could not think beyond that. Could not think of the price of asking for her help. Could not think about all the shades of meaning behind the word _join_. Morgause would get her out, and Morgana would take it from there.

Maneuvering around the tubing sticking into her veins and the beeping machines, she pushed herself up to sitting and swung her legs, goose-bumped and unshaven under the hem of the short hospital gown, to the cold floor. Unsteady after so many days of hospitalization, Morgana stumbled out of bed, clutching the wall. The built-in dresser drawers—that must be where they had left her personal effects. 

It may have taken her hours to cross to the wall, prop her shoulder and forehead against it, and tug open the drawers, one after another. Each was empty. 

No phone. Fuck. If only she had access to the magic locked in her blood—it seemed the only way she might be able to do anything. 

The door swung open and Morgana startled, watched the flinty-eyed nurse enter with a tray, the same frowning woman who had been floating in and out of Morgana’s room since she had been here. There had to be others, too, she knew that logically, but this one seemed to work the most, all icy hands and frown lines. Her lips tugged down when she saw Morgana. “You’re not to be out of bed without supervision.” With a resounding smack, she placed the tray on the table that stretched across Morgana’s bed and gestured to it.

“I was just . . .” She shuffled back towards the bed, let the nurse clutch a cold arm around her waist.

“Do you know where my phone is? I . . . I need to call in sick for work.”

The nurse made quick work of the linens, securing Morgana under them like a straight jacket. “Relapsed CHAD offenders are not allowed access to their phones or computers. Strict hospital policy in the CHAD ICF,” she grunted as she adjusted the table so Morgana could eat. 

“Dr. Bayard said it’s time to start switching you back to solid foods. We’ve been feeding you intravenously until now. We’ve got chicken broth and mashed potatoes for you today.” She pulled lids off containers and Morgana grimaced.

She really didn’t want mashed potatoes. 

“So eat up. And if you need help using the bathroom, just buzz. Or use the bed pan. Emily, who starts the night shift in a few hours, is due to give you a sponge bath.”

Morgana looked away from the lump of potatoes. She did not want to eat them. She wanted a cigarette. 

The flinty-eyed nurse was turning to leave. “Wait, um, what about my dosage?” Morgana called out.

“What about it?”

“I asked Dr. Bayard to lower it. I can’t . . . I can’t think straight.”

The nurse glared at her. “You’ve got to take that up with him. He gave no orders to have your dosage reduced, so we don’t reduce it.” She slammed the door emphatically behind her.

Morgana glared down at the food on her tray and slumped back against the bed. They could not make her eat it. Heavy and aching from the strain of talking, from the strain of thinking, Morgana closed her eyes. She felt sleep creeping in. She would figure it out when she woke up. There had to be a way to contact Morgause.

Except it seemed there wasn’t. 

Days passed. Morgana slept, she ate, she vomited into the puke bags by her bed after her morning dosages and after she woke from naps. Her phone and all her personal effects remained missing. She waited for her body to adjust to the new medication dosage. The fuzziness in her mind eventually flattened into background static, occasional throbbing behind her eyes, excessive sleepiness that she could not shake, no matter how determined she was to stay awake. Spoons and forks tumbled from her fingers, and once she spilled a mug of lukewarm coffee all over her white hospital gown. The nurses moved in and out robotically, hooking her up to bags of fluid, drawing away syringes of her blood, placing food in front of her, sponging her off, walking her to the bathroom, standing over her as she pissed. She wondered if her body belonged more to them than it did to her anymore.

Dr. Bayard did not visit again, at least not while Morgana was awake. Neither did Judith.

Morgana thought about Morgause, she thought about what her hand felt like when she rested it against Morgana’s cheek. Once she could think again, she would figure a way to get her phone. There had to be a way, she kept telling herself, her mind chasing its tail like a bewildered cat.

///

Samantha, the flinty-eyed nurse, was clearing her tray, tutting. “You haven’t eaten any of this dinner.”

“What, you call that horrendous meatloaf dinner?” Morgana snapped. Soggy and limp it stared at her and just looking at it made her want to vomit. “Leave me the coffee, though. And, God, I would _kill_ for a cigarette.”

Samantha frowned. “That’s not going to happen. No smoking allowed in here, you know that. But I do have news for you.” She spoke in that tight-lipped way she always did, like she resented every word she was tasked with bestowing on Morgana.

“Oh?” 

“Dr. Bayard looked at your charts and decided you’ll be ready for transfer by the end of next week.”

Morgana’s stomach knotted inside her. “Transfer? What transfer?”

“Transfer to CP Headquarters. He told me he thought you’d remember that conversation. I guess not.”

Morgana sat up as straight as she could in the tilted-back bed. “Samantha, Dr. Bayard also told me that I could see my parole officer, Judith Simmons.”

“I don’t see why. You violated your parole.”

“Exactly,” Morgana ground out. “I need to discuss the new terms of parole since my violation. I want to speak to her.”

Samantha frowned, not answering. 

“I know my rights. And it’s my right and duty to meet regularly with my parole officer, especially because I’m being transferred back into custody. I _need_ to speak to her.” She imbued her voice with as much of Uther’s tones as she had left in her threadbare body. She had once been good at mimicking his voice; these days, though, she was out of practice.

“I don’t have time to run around being your secretary. Why don’t you call her yourself?”

“I’m not allowed my phone, remember?” 

Samantha stared down at the tray of uneaten food in her hands. “I’ll ask Dr. Bayard about it.”

“Thank you.”

It wasn’t a guarantee, but then, nothing was when you were a CHAD patient. Morgana had learned that quickly enough, during that first institutionalization, when Uther and Gaius had thrown up their hands and packed her off to a high-end CHAD facility. She sipped her cold, weak coffee and refused to let herself think about _that_ particular experience. Here and now she had to find an escape, that was all she could think about.

///

Three days later—or maybe it was four—Judith walked in while Morgana was clutching her coffee and trying to keep her breakfast in her stomach. A creased romance novel fished from the library lay open, unread in front of her. She had to work too hard on not throwing up to focus on it.

“Morgan.” Judith greeted her with a tight smile that telegraphed just how disappointed in her she was; Morgana could have seen that a mile off. 

Her clothes—a cream V-neck camisole under a deep crimson blazer and a matching skirt—so clearly marked her as coming from the outside world. Morgana wanted to throw herself on Judith’s neck, wrap her arms around her waist and just hang on until they had exited the building, together. 

She stared at Judith, unsure what to say now that she was here. 

Judith pulled up a chair, so her face was level with Morgana’s. “How are you doing?” 

Morgana was so sick and tired of that question, the one that expected a lie and a smile. 

“Rather terribly, Judith. The food sucks, the meds suck more. Have you ever heard of a hospital dosage? I’m on the hospital dosage,” she made air quotes around the words, “of everything. Everyone treats me like an escaped murder convict.” She paused. “And I’m scared, Judith. I’m scared.”

Judith nodded, but did not respond.

“They tell me the conditions of my parole have changed?”

“Yes.” Judith’s voice was soft, matter-of-fact. “You’ve also been transferred from my care. Someone else is going to supervise your parole now.”

 _Transfer_. There was that ugly word again. “Why?”

“Why were you transfererd?”

“Yes.”

Judith smoothed an invisible wrinkle where her skirt stretched over her thighs.

“There is a certain protocol to follow with high-profile, high-risk cases. I don’t claim to fully understand it, but as soon as you violated parole, you were bumped up into a separate category.”

“Who’s my new parole officer?”

Judith looked down, frowned. “Yes, well, I looked into that. You’ve been reassigned to a federal parole officer in New York.”

“In New York?”

“I’m sure he can explain everything when you get there.”

Her transfer was taking shape, becoming something tangible and ugly. They were going to move her into the locked basement in Camelot, and there was nothing she could do about it. All her paperwork had probably already been switched to New York.

“Just because of one little slip-up, Judith? Really?” she ground out.

Judith cocked her head. “You know better than that.”

“I got drunk.” She wanted to yell, suddenly. “Other people do this kind of shit every day and they don’t get fucking sent to medical confinement for it.”

“Other people aren’t on parole for false imprisonment, kidnapping, medical negligence, aggravated assault, illegal weapons charges, and attempted murder,” she replied smoothly. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Morgan, I’m going to speak frankly here, because there’s something you should know.” She took a deep breath. “You scare them.” 

“Who?”

“The system. The parole officers. The CHAD controllers. I know it just feels like one little slip-up for you, but what if you had endangered someone during that period you were off your meds? Or done something stupid and it had been caught on camera? You are a media shitstorm waiting to happen, and everyone knows it. No one’s forgotten the frenzy that was your trial. Since you’ve been on my watch, you’ve managed to fly under the radar, but one misstep and you’re making the five o’clock news again. You know that; we know that. So one small violation and back you go. The local police have officers tasked with checking in with me regularly. They’ve been watching you like a hawk since you came to Philadelphia.”

She sounded like Morgause. “Why can’t everyone just fucking forget about me?”

Judith paused so long that Morgana thought she was not going to reply. “Because you’re not very forgettable, Morgan.” She paused. “Morgana,” she added deliberately. “Even with your blond hair.” She said it through pressed lips, like it was a confession unwillingly wrung from her, and Morgana wondered again exactly how straight Judith was. Not that it mattered, now. 

“Can you tell me anything about him, my new parole officer?” she asked after a long pause.

Judith shook her head. “No. Shortly after you were admitted to the hospital, I was asked to submit my reports from our last meetings, and that was that. Once a case is off my desk, its files are closed to me.”

Morgana’s stomach contracted, threatened to explode out of her throat, and she closed her eyes. This was too much, all too much for her. They sat there in silence.

“The nurse told me that no one’s been to visit you.”

“Who would?”

“Is there any one I can call for you? Family?”

Morgana laughed dryly. “If, by family, you mean my asshole half-brother who is most assuredly trying his best to forget he is my half-brother, and whose all-powerful company has just ordered me to New York so I can live as their lab rat, then no.”

“A partner?” There was something in Judith’s voice, something unusually soft underneath her words, something she had not heard from anyone else who had spoken to her the whole time she had been incarcerated here. _She cared_ , Morgana realized. She cared deeply. If Morgana had been transferred to a new parole officer, then Judith technically should not even be here. 

_Use that, use it, use it_ , a voice in her head chanted softly. 

“There is someone,” she said quietly, the words slipping out of her mouth before she could stop them.

The most important thing about lying—Morgause had told her once—is to make yourself believe it. Keep it as close to the truth as you can, picture it as the truth in your head, make it true as you speak.

Judith leaned forward. And wasn’t this what Judith had been asking Morgana for all along— _talk to someone, open up to someone, anyone_ , to me. Morgana didn’t look at her. Judith wanted this, she could taste it. _Make it good_. 

She closed her eyes and remembered the way Morgause gently held her hair off her neck in the mornings as she had leaned over the toilet.

“She, she left me. And that’s why I . . .” Morgana put her hand over her mouth, tried to remember how to talk to people. She used to be able to do this, used to do it in fact without even trying, wear her disappointment, her desire, her fear on her face like a sign for anyone who walked by to interpret freely, tell anyone and everyone how she felt. Prison had taught her to close that down.

She braced herself and forged ahead, trying hard to feel it as a truth and not think about it; if she overthought it, Judith would read it on her face. “She was . . . she was the first . . .” She paused. “I haven’t been in a relationship with anyone else since before,” _since Gwen, actually_ , her mind supplied, “since before I was sentenced. And she was . . . she was living with me. We were . . .”

“What happened, Morgan?”

Morgana pictured it as it might have been, Morgause crowding against her body in her twin bed. Morgause explaining their schemes and their plans together, cocking her head and listening thoughtfully to Morgana’s suggestions, holding heated debates at the kitchen table. 

“I . . . I broke it off because it was too much, too fast.” And was that, was that a lie? 

Judith nodded sympathetically, murmured for her to go on, but Morgana could not face her. She just stared down at her hands.

“And she left me. And I didn’t think she’d really do that, I thought she’d . . . I wanted her to stay.” She swallowed, plunged forward, not sure what was going to come out of her mouth next. “I drove her away, Judith. I drove her away from me. And she was the only person . . . the only one who . . .” Something hot and tight was swelling in her throat, burning behind her eyes. “And she left. She left me.” 

Morgana blinked. She was crying, a big fat tear escaped and trailed down her cheek. Well that was okay, it would work well for the act. It was okay. _Don’t think about the lie_. “And that’s when I decided to binge drink myself to sleep for once. Right after she left me, because I couldn’t think about it anymore, how much I wanted her, how stupid it was to drive her away. How much I wish I could just fix me. Fix me so I can open myself up again. I don’t know how, I don’t . . . That’s what landed me here. . . . And now, now I need to talk to her. I need to see her again.”

It felt horrible, it felt awful, these stupid wet things streaming down to the tip of her nose and the edges of her chin, the shakiness in her limbs, the overwhelming feeling of just wanting to throw herself at Judith, to curl up in her lap. The lie—and it was a lie, of that she was sure—was taking over her body. _Focus, focus._ She turned her head to the side and met Judith’s inquisitive, soft gaze for the first time since she had begun speaking. “I need to talk to her. But her number’s in my phone,” she said softly. “Can you get that for me?”

“Morgan, you know I can’t do that.”

Then what was all this useless emotion for, if she couldn’t convince someone to help her?

“You’re a class 1AA CHAD offender now,” Judith explained, reaching out to squeeze her hand—in sympathy, in solidarity, perhaps? “That means you are not allowed contact with anyone who hasn’t been pre-approved by your new parole officer.”

“Well how is he going to pre-approve anything if he’s in New York?”

Judith nodded. “Yeah,” the word stretched out on her tongue, “that’s the problem.”

“Who decided that my new parole office was in New York anyway?”

Judith shrugged. “The federal parole board makes these decisions in conjunction with the federal CHAD controller committee.”

“Can we appeal it?”

Judith laughed once, shortly and shook her head. “I wish we could.”

“But what about visitors? You asked if I’d had visitors? Does that mean there are some people who are allowed to see me?”

“Family is automatically pre-approved,” Judith explained, “for anyone else we’d have to run it by your new parole officer in New York.”

Morgause, one of America’s Most Wanted, would surely not be top on the list of approved people to visit Morgana. But Morgause had plenty of alibis for sure and had never needed permission for anything, anyway. Morgana wanted to smile, but just bit her lips instead. “Can’t I just . . . phone her? Text her? Tell her I’m here and that I want her to apply for permission to see me?”

 _If she still even wants to see you,_ a voice whispered in her mind.

Judith shook her head again. Her dark eyes filling with sympathy. “It doesn’t work like that. I’m sorry, Morgana.”

Judith’s bleeding heart had to do Morgana some good. Something. “But, my God, she doesn’t know where I am. What’s happened to me. What if she came back after we fought? What if she’s worried?” Morgana was picturing it as though it were true, picturing Morguase staring at the empty apartment, the untaken medication, the stain of vomit on her bedroom rug.

She dropped Judith’s hand; she was babbling helplessly now, as the picture unfolded in her mind of how Morgause would worry, what Morgause would say, all the magic tendrils she’d send out to trace Morgana, of how she’d try to use her scrying crystal to find her. “But I . . . she’s the first person who _meant_ anything to me, Judith. The first person who . . . I just want to tell her I’m sorry. That she was right.” 

Morgana stared at her hands and wiped furtively at her eyes, hating this, all of this emotion. Even Judith, Judith with her quiet voice and her sympathetic eyes and the warm tone of her skin that reminded Morgana of Gwen, even Judith should not be seeing any of this. Neither spoke for a long time.

Judith cleared her throat. “Look, I’ll tell you what. I can’t bring you your phone, even for a minute, it would be a direct violation of the parameters of your new parole. But, _but_ I can make a phone call for you. That won’t violate your parole.”

Morgana’s breath caught in her lungs. “Really? You’d do that for me?”

“Legally, there’s nothing that says I can’t contact people _for_ you. But you and your girlfriend . . . ex-girlfriend will have to deal with applying for approval through your New York parole officer. 

Morgana nodded, not wanting to break the spell around them.

“So what if I call your ex and give her a message for you? That’s the best I can do.”

Morgana released a breath she hadn’t known she had been holding. “Okay, okay. That’s . . . wow.” She reached across the bed and tugged Judith’s hand into hers. “Thank you.”

“What should I tell her?”

“That I’ve been put in here, that I need to see her.” Morgana paused. “And give her the contact info for my new parole officer, if you don’t mind,” she added for good measure.

“What’s her number?”

“Oh.” _Think, think, think_. “I don’t know her number.” Morgana smiled sheepishly. “It’s in my phone.” She hoped it was at least. Morgana had never programmed it in there herself, yet perhaps—hopefully—Morgause, in her stubborn desire to insinuate herself into every corner of Morgana’s life, had entered it in there herself.

“Okay, so I’ll need access to your effects—whatever was brought in with you—but I’m sure I can get that as your former parole officer.”

“Good.”

“And her name, what’s her name so I can find her in your phone?”

Morgause would not have been foolish enough to enter her own name into Morgana’s phone. No, were she in there at all, she would have used a codename, one that only Morgana would recognize. 

“Diana. Diana Prince,” Morgana blurted out. She hoped to _God_ she were right, and also that Judith did not follow comics. Just saying the name made Morgana’s heart race. She remembered—Donna Troy, Diana Prince, I Ching—the code names she, Morgause, and Cenred had chosen in a moment of swaggering laughter, names that had suddenly become deadly serious when they had needed evasion, escape, getting out alive. 

Judith nodded and stood to leave. If she suspected anything was off about the name, she wasn’t showing it. She glanced at her wrist watch and rubbed her palms over her skirt. “I’ve got to rush if I’m going to make my next meeting. I’ll see what I can do about getting in touch with Diana.”

“Thank you.”

Judith nodded and faced the door, turning to leave, and then caught herself, looking back at Morgana. “I’m sorry, Morgan. I truly am. I’m sorry that you found someone and lost her. That this happened to you. . . . . It’s awful—all of it, being hospitalized, being transferred, being alone. I honestly didn’t know that they were planning on transferring you when the Zillaxia comes on the market. It’s terrible that one little slip-up, as you said, is costing you so much.” She put her hand on the doorknob, paused, looked away. “But that’s the way it works.” She spoke to the door without turning. “You can never be like other people. Don’t screw up again.”

And then she was gone.

She was right, but not how she meant. Morgana was going to do her best not to screw up again.

///


	6. Chapter 5

Time passed. Morgana was unsure how much. Occasionally hours, whole afternoons even, she felt somewhat clear. She could focus on what people were saying to her, she could think in fits and starts, the background noise in her head receded to something barely noticeable. Mornings tended to be the worst. Everything looked blurry around the edges, her mind pulsed and stuttered and screeched like AM radio, she could not follow it when people spoke to her for more than a few minutes, and she fumbled with coffee cups, forks, and the remote control for the TV.

Dr. Bayard visited her again, once, grinning over her progress. Her body and mind were adjusting well to the higher hospital dosage of her medication, he explained, just before confirming that she would be transferred. “By the end of the week,” he said.

“When?” she asked.

“By Friday.”

“What’s today?”

“Wednesday.”

“So within forty-eight hours?”

He nodded.

Her heart froze, and she thought, for a minute, she might be passing out.

“Buck up,” he said, like a middle school soccer coach giving a pep talk, and she almost expected him to tack on the phrase _little camper_ , “you’ll be well taken care of. I honestly never expected you to last this long in the real world, anyway.”

Head stuffed with static, panicking like a trapped animal, Morgana wondered where the real world was. _I’d like to see you survive on a month of the high dosage of dream-sweeping meds you’ve been giving me_. But she didn’t say it, just grimaced and avoided looking at him so she would not punch him in the face. She would probably miss anyway, swipe at the air beside his ear or something.

“Well, I can see you’re tired. Best of luck and all that.” 

She did not respond.

///

For dinner, they were serving meatloaf and gravy again today, and Morgana did not eat a single bite.

“What a waste,” Samantha scolded, glancing over the untouched food. “Don’t you want energy for your trip?” 

“What trip?”

“The escort truck comes to pick you up after dinner. Didn’t anyone tell you? You’re being transferred to Camelot Pharmaceuticals tonight.”

“Tonight? I’m going all the way to New York tonight?”

“Yes, they’re coming this evening. At ten p.m., after rush hour.”

Samantha was gone, the offending food was gone, and Morgana’s time was gone. 

She had nothing: no phone, no subway ticket, no car, not even pedestrian clothes or a coat to throw over her hospital gown. Worst of all, it felt as though she didn’t even have a mind left. She had to think. She had told Judith to contact Morgause . . . she had told her, hadn’t she? That had been more than a daydream, she was certain of it. The warm memory of Judith’s hand on hers, of the deep look in her eyes, the tears pressing up tightly in Morgana’s throat, that had all been real, hadn’t it? 

How long had Morgause had now? How much time? Surely enough to figure out a way to get Morgana back, to figure out a way to get her out. Morgause could get her out, couldn’t she?

But what if she wasn’t coming? But what if her number hadn’t been in Morgana’s phone? What if she didn’t even know where Morgana was? What if she didn’t care? What if she had been lying all along? What if she had assessed the risk and decided it was too much?

She had to think, to focus against the backdrop of blurry mayhem inside her head. 

But it was too late. She could feel restless sleep creeping over her.

///

Morgana looked at the clock. Eight p.m. That gave her two hours to get away. Samantha had said ten, hadn’t she? That had been today, hadn’t it? Two hours. She was not going to go without a fight. She thought of Morgause, longingly. Well, there was nothing for it now. If Morgana had to walk out of here barefoot, then she would. She had been locked up before, and if they were going to lock her up again, then they would have to do it by force.

Now was as good a time as any. They wouldn’t be checking on her soon. The nurses tended to lay low in the evenings. She stared at the closed door, at the IV needle in her arm, at the bag hanging above her bed, dripping the poison into her veins.

With her right hand, she reached over and yanked the needle from her flesh, pressing down with the bedsheet corner over the bubble of blood that welled up. So many drops, so many syringes and quarts of blood they had taken from her. 

She swung her knees over the side of the bed and waited for her head to stop spinning as she tugged the blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it over her shoulders, cold in the air conditioning. 

She inhaled to steady herself, ignored the wobbling in her legs, and moved to the door, opened it. Clutching the blanket around her shoulders, she strode into the hallway like she belonged. Years ago, Morgause had taught her how much you could get away with by just looking like you belonged. Certainly the hospital blanket was a bit of a give-away, but she held her head high and marched down the wide, surprisingly empty hallway.

The smooth tile was cold on her feet. If her mind had been working at more than half capacity right now, she would have brought the flimsy hospital slippers set by her bed for her quick trips to the bathroom. She marched on. 

All the doors to the other patient rooms were closed. Although televisions rumbled from behind them, the hallway remained eerily quiet. She rounded a corner and reached an entryway, a vacant nurses’ station, and three sets of elevator doors framed by signs that read: “Restricted: CHAD ICF.” 

Where was everyone? Was she dreaming? If she was dreaming, she had to wake up. Morgana’s breathing quickened, and she could feel the accelerating thud of her heartbeat throughout the whole cavity of her chest.

Off to the side, a door marked “Staff Only” stood open. 

Keeping one eye on the staff room door, she snuck along the wall towards the elevators. Halfway there, she had to blink back a wave of dizziness, and sagged against the wall. This was her first time walking farther than the bathroom in days, no weeks—months?—she wasn’t sure. She jabbed at the down button, but where the arrows and numbers should have been lighting up the small screen, red text flashed by: ACCESS DENIED. KEYCARD REQUIRED. 

She cursed and looked around, still no one else in the hallway. She tiptoed over to the staff room, trailing her hand along the wall, in case she had another flash of dizziness.

In the staff room, Samantha and another nurse she did not recognize sat slumped over a table. The other nurse snored lightly. This could not be real. She was dreaming, she needed to wake up so she could escape for real instead of dreaming she was escaping.

Something buzzed once, twice, in the corner of the room, like a bell of dismissal at school. 

Morgana eyed the keycard badge clipped to Samantha’s pant leg and crept forward. She bent over Samantha’s sleeping form, the woman’s tight, hair-sprayed bun bumping into Morgana’s forehead as she unhooked the precious keycard. 

The elevator dinged. She froze, glanced around the Spartan staff room for somewhere to hide, and saw only a cluster of chairs around a coffee table, a poster telling her to wash her hands, and a refrigerator. 

“Hello?” a familiar voice called out from the foyer.

Morgana exhaled with relief, stood and staggered to the door. “Judith?!” 

Judith rushed towards her as though to hug her, checked herself and stopped right in front of her. “Morgan, are you okay? What the hell is going on? I think this is some kind of terrorist attack.”

_And I think this is some kind of dream._

Her heart stuck in her throat. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone’s asleep! Haven’t you noticed?” Her eyes narrowed, and she stepped closer. Dressed in a sleek pin-striped black suit, Judith was vibrating with danger, a shark in the water, and Morgana stumbled back a step.

“Everyone except _you_.” Judith’s voice was deliberate and slow; Morgana could practically see pieces fitting together in her mind.

No, no it couldn’t be. That spell required a willing conduit, a vessel. She certainly wasn’t the vessel, she had not spoken to Morgause since she had left her alone in her apartment.

Morgana was dreaming, that was all.

“I . . . I just noticed it myself,” Morgana stuttered. “Am I dreaming? I buzzed for a nurse, and then when no one came, I got up to see if I could find one.” She gestured around her. “And no one’s around.”

“No,” Judith said slowly. “Not a single person. Except for you.” 

Morgana stammered, sucked in air. 

Down the hall, a door slammed, and they both jumped.

“Hey!” a rough voice hollered. “Hey! I’ve been buzzing you lazy nurses for the past twenty minutes, where the hell are you?”

Judith edged closer to Morgana, and spun, positioning her body between Morgana and the sharp hallway corner. “What in God’s name is going on?” she whispered.

A patient, an older man, wide, with a face like a punching bag, rounded the corner, his IV stand trailing behind him. He halted in his tracks, eyed them up, lingering on Judith’s suit. “Where the hell are the nurses? Have you two seen them?”

“They’re in there.” Morgana pointed to the staff room. “Asleep.” 

Maybe she was not dreaming. 

Judith threw her a glare. 

Morgana stuck her chin out. “So I’m not the only one awake,” she whispered furiously into Judith’s hair. 

Ignoring them, the man plodded to the staff room.

“This hospital needs to be on lockdown,” Judith whispered back after he had shuffled past them. “We need police in here right away. All the staff are out, and the patients are awake? This is very much _not good_.”

But Morgana had something else on her mind. The keycard she was clutching behind her back, and how she could get away with Judith seeing her. Or . . . if Judith came up here on her own, then she, too, had a keycard. They could get out together.

Morgana shook her head, ran her hand up Judith’s arm, and clung to her bicep. Judith turned to face her again. “I’m . . . it’s not safe here. I’m scared. Let’s get out of here.” She was scared, but not of the other CHAD patients. No, she was scared of that armored truck that was coming for her. But Judith did not need to know exactly what she was afraid of. Did Judith even know her transfer was today? Her transfer was today, wasn’t it?

Judith whipped her cell phone from her pocket, shaking her head. “No, Morgan. I’m calling the police.”

She yanked on Judith’s arm, pulled her closer. “They won’t be here fast enough. Let’s get out of here before the other patients realize what’s going on. Judith, please. _Please_ ,” she pleaded. “Don’t call the police now, let’s just get out of here.”

“Why?” The shark resurfaced, Judith was scanning Morgana’s face, searching out the lie. “Why don’t you want me to call the police?”

“Because I want to get the fuck out of here. You must have a keycard. How long have you been here?”

“I’ve only been in the hospital under an hour. I wanted to see you in the last visiting hour.” She shook her head as if to clear her mind, focused on Morgana. “But, Morgan . . . Morgana there’s something you’re not telling me. Tell me now.”

“No, there’s nothing, nothing.” She jabbed at the button. Faking a panic attack should be easy, especially given the aching weakness in her legs, the incessant background chatter in her brain, the constriction in her chest. “C’mon, Judith.”

She shook her head and pulled out her mobile. “I’m calling the police.” 

_No, no, no_. Police meant an armored truck and transfer to New York. Morgana had no time, she had to tackle Judith, take her out. She sized her up as Judith’s fingers flew over her mobile.

Something—a door—clicked open to their right. 

“Lift your hands and drop the phone, Judith.”

Morgana spun. Morgause, outfitted in black motorcycle leathers and pointing a pistol at Judith, sauntered into the foyer from a side exit Morgana had overlooked by the stairwell. Her blond hair flowed like a flag down her back. She was followed by sixteen undead marines dressed in grayed camouflage, combat helmets and goggles covering their eyeless faces, fully automatic rifles out and cocked.

It had been ten years since Morgana had seen these Navy SEALs, the Marines of Medhir. She stared at them and forgot how to breathe.

Morgause’s eyes were glittering hard points, zeroing in on Judith. “I said, drop it, Judith.”

The phone tumbled out of Judith’s hand and she gasped. “You!”

“Good.” Morgause spoke with that smug calm that Morgana had always hated, like she was miles away from everyone and everything surrounding her.

“You wouldn’t want to have to admit to being an accessory to several felonies, would you?” Morgause asked Judith.

“Felonies? What?”

“The spell that’s fallen over the whole hospital. It’s coming from you.”

Morgana flashed to another moment, years ago: they had huddled together in Morgause’s Vancouver apartment, flipping through musty spell books with Cenred. She remembered her finger tracing the word _slæp_ , feeling under her fingers the embossed curling ancient language she was still learning. _Morgause, what about this spell?_

“What spell? What are you talking about?” Judith bit out, crossing her arms in front of her chest, bravely stepping towards the handgun still trained on her. 

“Because you’re the vessel,” Morgause said as though it were clear as day. “Your desire to save Morgana is channeling the spell, sending all the staff and most of the patients in this hospital into a dreamless slumber. When Nimueh used this particular spell to free the inmates of two CHAD institutions, the nurse who served as the vessel for her spell was found to be guilty of conspiracy to all the charges thrown at her: unauthorized administration of an intoxicant, illegal use of magic, unlawful restraint, false imprisonment. And there would be,” she shrugged, “what at least five hundred counts of it? One for each person quietly sleeping now. Oh, and then there’s the escape charge for helping me break out Morgana. You’d be looking at a sentence as long as the one Morgana had.”

The dusky skin of Judith’s face blanched. “But . . . but I don’t want it to come from me. I take it back. I take it back!”

Morgause just smirked at her. “You can’t take it back, my dear.”

“Morgause,” Morgana said softly, “what have you done?”

Morgause looked at Morgana for the first time, looked straight through her. The undead marines fanned out, rifles checking corners, empty eye sockets scanning the room. 

“I had to use the tools you sent me, love.” Her voice gentled and she held out her hand. “Now, come along. I went through a lot of trouble to set this up.”

Morgana stood her ground; this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She needed to think, damn it. “People aren’t tools, Morgause.”

Morgause cocked her head. “Aren’t they? You used Judith as well. Told her some long sob story about me and you. Asked her to call me. You used her. Just like I did.”

She fisted her hands at her side. _This, this was exactly why she could not work with Morgause, not again. Because the same words meant opposite things to them._ “That was, that was a little white lie. I didn’t coerce her into participating in a powerful spell. How did you do that anyway?” Her voice grew louder. “Did you sleep with her?”

Morgause sighed. “No. I played on her sympathies, we just . . . talked, she and I. She wants the same thing that I do, really, Morgana. She wants to help you.”

Morgana did not believe her, not quite. It was so hard to know when to believe anything Morgause said. They stared at each other, the marines around them silent. Morgana didn’t dare look at Judith.

“Morgana,” Morgause said slowly with deliberation, “you have a choice right now: Either come with me and have a chance at a life outside of imprisonment or stay here, face new charges, and end up either in jail or in the basement of Camelot’s laboratories. Those are your choices. Your only choices.”

The thing was, she was right. She was entirely, unequivocally right. And this was not a dream. And Morgana had to get out of here.

“Don’t listen to her, Morgana,” Judith piped up. “You are better than this. Don’t do this.”

“Oh, hush, you’ve served your purpose,” Morgause said with an exhale. She turned to the marine standing nearest her. “Sit her in that chair and tie her up. I’ve had enough of her.” He moved to follow her orders. Morgana thought she might vomit; she could not watch.

“There. Now you can explain to the police how I coerced you,” Morgause said lightly. She turned to Morgana. “So, are you coming or not?” 

Morgause was right, Morgana had a choice. Two shitty options, and no third solution in sight. She needed so badly just to think. 

She swallowed. “But Morgause, I won’t . . . I won’t be your follower again. I am not yours to command like the Marines of Medhir.”

Morgause did not look away. “That’s not what I’m asking, Morgana. Equal partnership I said, and I meant it. Come with me, not as my student, not as my second-in-command, but as my equal. As the future leader of the resistance.”

Morgana looked at Judith, bound by rope. Judith glared back at her. She looked at the undead marines, at the growing crowd of patients clustered behind them that she had not noticed before. They hung back, trying to peer over the marines’ shoulders, but not pushing in too closely to the armed statue-like men. Morgana tugged her blanket a little more tightly around her.

“I can’t . . . I don’t trust you completely, Morgause. I just can’t. But of course I’m coming with you now.” It had never been a question, really. She needed out.

“Then I’ll just have to work to earn the rest of your trust,” Morgause said softly, her seriousness undercut by a tight grin. 

Morgause waved her marines to the side and turned to address the patients who had gathered awkwardly in the hall. “You are all free to go. I manipulated the spell so it would not affect people with magic in their veins. So you are amongst kin. I estimate you have thirty minutes to escape before the police arrive. Leave this one alone, though.” She nodded towards Judith.

She turned to face Morgana, took both her hands in hers, and her eyes were filled with so much power, so much hope that the frantic beating of Morgana’s heart slowed. They could do this. Together, they could do it.

“Come, love.” Morgause beckoned and Morgana followed.

In sync with the Marines of Medhir, Morgana thundered down the steps, and fuck, it felt good to move, despite the weakness in her legs. She wouldn’t fall; they braced her on either side; the stairs were flying away underneath them.

At the second to last floor, they stopped. Morgana’s lungs felt full to bursting. Morgause signaled for them to wait at the landing, and slid through the fire door, leaving Morgana alone with the marines.

She blinked. She breathed in, she breathed out, deep shuddering breaths all the way to her core, tried her best to hear past the buzzing in her ears. The marines did not move an inch.

The door slammed open; Morgause strode inside, Gilli Porter trailing behind, sputtering. “This isn’t, this isn’t enough time.”

“This is the time you’ve got, Gilli.” She slid her hand into Morgana’s, tugged. “Come on. We’re going to deactivate your chip.”

“Now?” 

“Yes, now. Please, Morgana, don’t fight me on this. We’ve got thirty minutes before the police arrive.” 

She was begging with such earnestness that Morgana ignored the cold sweat breaking out between her shoulder blades and in her underarms. She swallowed and nodded.

Morgause whispered to the marines in the old language, then dragged Morgana through the door. Instantly, Gilli was tucked into her side as they marched down the hall. “This usually takes a full forty-five minutes; I need anesthetic, another set of hands, this isn’t, this isn’t . . .”

Morgause ignored him, and led them into an empty patient room. She pointed Morgana toward a hospital bed. Yet another hospital bed in her long line of beds. Morgana shivered and hugged her naked arms, hesitating. She did not want to get on that bed. Two marines took up positions at the door, keeping others out, keeping Morgana in.

She shook her head, “Do we have to? Please.”

Morgause nodded and pointed insistently toward the bed.

“No, no. I really don’t want . . .” she glanced through the open, guarded door, “I _really_ don’t want this. How do we even have time for this?” 

Morgause stepped forward and wrapped her hands around Morgana’s folded forearms. 

“I wish we didn’t have to do this now. But if we don’t, this whole rescue will be for naught.” She untangled Morgana’s hands where they were knotted around herself and clasped both in hers, staring unblinkingly into Morgana’s eyes. “Anywhere we go, they will be able to track us as long as that chip in your head is transmitting a signal. We might as well just stay here if we don’t deactivate it or take it out before we leave.”

“But that didn’t stop us before. In Vancouver.” 

“That was different. Your father and friends knew you were in Vancouver. They just didn’t know what you were up to. You were a law-abiding citizen vacationing in Canada with friends for all anyone else knew or cared.” She tilted her chin down, leaning into Morgana’s space. “Everything about this time is going to be different. I promise. Now, look, Gilli is the best. He will deactivate your chip and then we can fly through a teleportation portal, and they’ll never be able to find you again.” She lifted a hand to Morgana’s cheek. “I’ll be here the whole time, right here with you.”

The words coming from her mouth felt so good against Morgana’s skin, in her mind. Morgana shook her head, as if she could shake out the fog, the grit stuck in there.

“I don’t want to trust you,” she told Morgause softly.

“I know, love. I know. But you have to, if you want me to get you out of here. Just trust me, at least until we’re out, okay?”

Morgana nodded, looking down, not meeting Morgause’s gaze, and then climbed onto the bed and entwined her fingers with Morgause’s. 

Gilli pulled instrument after instrument out of a black medical bag and placed them on the tray by the bed—syringes, bags of fluid, tubes of gel, numerous closed packets, several small hand-held electronic devices, gauze, scissors, an electric razor—and came to stand behind the bed. Morgana looked away from the tools he had set out. Gilli instructed her to lie on her side, with her back to him. When she did, Morgause sat on the bed, perched in the V made by Morgana’s fetal position. 

Behind them, Gilli began to describe what they would be doing.

“I’m going to have to cut a lot of the hair from the back of your head, and then shave the area clean. While this is mostly a non-invasive procedure, I will need to perform several injections and put monitors on your scalp to track brain activity and to interact with the chip’s frequency. I’ll use a local anesthetic so you won’t feel a thing. It’s of the utmost importance that you stay as still as possible, and the local anesthetic will help with that as well.”

Morgause squeezed her hand and brushed a strand of hair from Morgana’s temple.

“Okay, I’m starting to cut your hair now.” Weight fell from her head. After a few minutes, the loud buzz of the razor followed, and then cold hospital air brushed over her naked scalp.

“All right, here comes the local anesthetic first. Just a topical one, so you’ll lose some sensation on your scalp. Next I’ll set up the monitors.”

A pinch, a buzzing, a tingling across her scalp. The tingling grew, expanded, sunk into her skin, numbing her fingers and feet. Quickly, the world began crumbling away. No, this couldn’t be right. Morgana struggled to sit up, clenched her fingers into Morgause’s.

“Hold her feet up, hold her feet up please. Something’s wrong with the dosage.” Gilli’s voice, loud and blunt behind her. “Where did you get the numbers for her regular medications? How recent are they?” Someone had grabbed hold of her feet and was propping them at a high angle.

“We got them from CamPharm’s system.” Morgause’s voice above Morgana sounded far away.

“No, no, that’s not right. You should have hacked into the hospital’s system for them. Often the doctors, especially the sadistic ones, up the dose for CHAD in-patient treatment.”

“Hold on, hold on, I’m making a call.” Morgana clutched Morgause’s hand more tightly, as though holding onto her fingers could keep her conscious. Fuck, how could she escape unconscious? She forced her heavy eyelids open to watch as Morgause fumbled one-handedly for a phone.

“Diana here. Code red. I need to speak with Queen right now . . .” 

The world dropped away from Morgana.

_The tall woman with wavy long hair, black like Morgana’s is naturally, is bending over her, blocking out the blue sky above, filling her vision. “You have to get up now,” she says solemnly._

_Morgana shakes her head no and presses her cheek to the grass and mud underneath her. It smells wonderfully real and fresh. She stretches under the sun warming her skin. They’ve finally gotten away from the city, somewhere secret and quiet where no one will find them. In the distance, she hears the soft slap of waves._

_“I really don’t want to get up,” she says with a smile as she breathes in earth and loam._

_“I don’t care if you don’t want to, my dear. You have to get up. This is your chance. Your only one.” She shakes Morgana, moves to block the sunlight streaming down on her. A shadowy cold wave surges up through her legs, her guts, her heart, her brain. Her teeth are suddenly chattering. The woman’s voice drops low, morphs. “Wake up.”_

“Wake up, Morgana. You have to wake up now.” Morgause’s voice in her ear, Morgause’s hands on her shoulders.

Morgana was on her back on a hospital bed. She rolled to her side, stared at the backs of the marines still flanking the door. “How long was I out?”

Morgause smoothed hair away from her face. “Not long. We miscalculated the anesthetic, didn’t account for the new doses of your other medications. They have you on the heaviest possible dosage of magic-blockers and dream-sweepers.”

“I know. You should have just asked.”

Her head felt lighter, she brushed her hand over the back of her scalp, rubbed at the soft fuzziness on the lower half of her head. “My hair’s gone.”

“Your chip, too.” Morgause grinned. “Well, not gone, just permanently broken.”

“Permanently?” That word had never sounded so good.

Gilli loomed into view. “Yes, ma’am.” Sweat was trickling down his temple and his face was flushed red, despite the icy air conditioning of the building, but he was smiling.

“Thank you.” She grinned.

“We have to go, now. It’s been thirty-five minutes, much longer than it was supposed to take. Can you walk?” Morgause stroked over Morgana’s hair again.

“I can try.”

“Ms. Lefay . . . Morgana,” Gilli called after her as Morgause helped her stand.

She turned.

“Give them hell.”

Outside it was raining, coming down in heavy, hard spurts. Long curls of dirty brown water rose up from the street to the curb, flooding the sidewalk, carrying away the blistering heat of the day. Above, the storm clouds darkened the evening sky, hastening the twilight.

Woozy in her pulsing head and in her legs, Morgana wanted to walk out from under the awning, let the rain soak through her skin, to wash away all the sweat of the summer, all the drugs crowding her veins. Could it be true that her chip was really deactivated? Morgana lifted her hands to her throat, instinctively moving to flip up a coat collar that was not actually there. 

A ring of black sports motorcycles was parked in front of the hospital, clustered together by the entrance to the small circular drive.

Morgana hesitated, hugging herself as she numbly registered police sirens wailing in the distance. She turned to Morgause. “The cops? Are they coming for us?” The rain drummed on the taut fabric above. Was she really here, barefoot in the rain, considering hopping on a motorcycle with Morgause? Had she been here before? This was not the dream, she was awake. She knew she was awake.

Morgause bit her lip and nodded. “We’ll have to be quick. The trick will be to evade them on the bikes, lead them to narrow places they can’t follow.” She glanced down at Morgana’s feet. “You don’t even have shoes. Or a jacket. Here,” she stuck her pistol in her waistband and began stripping off her heavy motorcycle jacket, ripping open her kevlar vest.

“No!” Morgana shrieked, cold certainty flooding her mind, waking her up. Her vision blurred, like she was watching a twice-exposed series of slides. Morgause looked skeletal, too thin without the buckles and leather of her jacket. Closing the space between them, she fisted the straps to Morgause’s kevlar, forced the velcro closed again.

“Morgana, you need this more than I do.”

Morgana shook her head, words stuck in her throat, her stomach dropped to the ground. “I . . . I don’t know why. I just . . . No. Keep it.” She tilted her head towards the marines standing silently awaiting orders, struggling to pick words from the thousand swirling images and sounds in her head. “Give me gear from one of them.”

Morgause sighed. “Not an option. If we remove their gear, they die permanently.”

The sharp wail of sirens, closer now, cut through their conversation. 

Morgana clenched her fists and pushed them into her closed eyes. The rain beating down on her scalp—half of it newly bald and vulnerable—threatened to drive out the images cascading over each other in Morgana’s brain. Morgause lying pale, near death in Morgana’s living room. Morgause’s lips forming around words Morgana had always wanted to hear as they stood right here in front of the hospital; Morgause holding out an iced coffee. Morgause’s body, hard and lean, over hers in the darkness. The smell of Morgause’s hair when Morgana leaned in and whispered to it _I don’t care, I don’t care if we’re half-sisters, if you’re with Cenred, I don’t care, I don’t care_. Morgause’s gloriously tanned body stretched under the morning sun by the pool. Morgause stripping off her vest in the rain.

Morgause huffed, and Morgana felt a stiff board being clamped to her back, to her front. 

“No,” she screamed with all the sound she had left in her throat, and spun, smacking Morgause in the jaw with her fist. She had to listen to her, had to believe her. Morgause stumbled back, slipping on the slick ground, staring intently at her. The vest fell past Morgana’s waist to the wet cement. Morgana picked it up and hurled it at her.

“You wear it! You fucking wear it!” She could not get the words, the images straight, there was too much in her heart, too much in her head, too much that had been swept out, too much that had been left in. “I don’t know . . . I don’t know why, but you have to trust me.”

The sirens crescendoed, coming nearer.

Morgana stared her down. “Partners, right?” she sputtered around her closing throat.

Morgause raised her hands in defeat and nodded once, curtly. “Okay, okay.” 

Morgana’s knees buckled in relief, and she stumbled towards her, pressing her palms into Morgause’s chest, fumbling to secure the wet velcro of the kevlar. She pressed her forehead into Morgause’s, as though she could transfer to her the whorl of pictures and words and memories and dreams and memories of dreams.

Water streamed down their temples, and she felt Morgause’s breath right against her lips, her warm, solid body close. Morgause raised both hands to Morgana’s cheekbones, her fingers leaving imprints on her skin. “You’re coming with me,” she breathed, “you’re really doing this.”

Morgana nodded. “Partners. Where are we going?”

“I didn’t have time to plant a new teleportation portal, and there wasn’t one in the city. So we have to use one outside of the city. It’s right by the Ben Franklin Bridge in New Jersey.”

“Jersey?” Morgana sputtered. “We have to get all the way across town and over the bridge?”

“We can do this. You just have to trust me.”

Morgana nodded and watched as Morgause gave orders in the old tongue, directing several marines to various tasks. Six of the sixteen-man platoon knelt before them, bowing on one knee and saluting, then rose, drew their weapons, and took up sniper positions—obscured by cars, columns, even large rectangular planters—fanning out from the small sea of motorcycles. The rest remained standing at attention behind Morgause. 

Then one marched forward and began stripping off his weapons, his gear, and his clothing. Each piece he held out to Morgause, who hastily passed them to Morgana. She stepped into his trousers and too-large combat boots, slipped the shirt over her hospital gown, haphazardly buttoned it, and let Morgause secure the weighty kevlar vest. The marine stood only in his underwear now, and Morgana watched the blue-gray of his undead flesh decompose in seconds before her eyes, rotting to blackness. 

The helmet and goggles fit on her head, a little loosely. And then her weapons were holstered, an automatic rifle and a small handgun. 

“Come on.” Morgause’s lips curled into a grin so bright it seemed it could burn away the rain falling around them.

“Lead the way.” 

Just then, a barrage of cop cars rounded the corner into sight, and Morgause tugged Morgana towards one of the motorcycles. She threw a leg over the machine as she slammed on a full-faced helmet and gestured at Morgana. 

The cops were just a block away now. This was it, this was really it. The rain was streaking across the goggles she was wearing, and her stomach was twisted into a million knots, and they had to move right this fucking instant.

Morgana had never been on a motorcycle, let alone been on one while running from the cops, and while fighting complete physical and mental exhaustion.

Morgause lifted the visor of her helmed. “Well? Hop on.”

“Well, this will be different.” She laughed because laughing was easier than having a complete and total screaming, crying breakdown. Morgause laughed with her, and then Morgana found her own body again and climbed on behind Morgause.

“Freeze!” A voice—distorted by a megaphone—crashed into them. The police had arrived; thirty feet away, cop cars were pouring into the street, choking off both entrances to the hospital’s circular drive. An officer—face masked—was hanging out the front passenger window of a car. Like rats from a boat, the other cops were streaming out of their cars, pointing rifles at Morgana.

“It’s okay,” Morgause said quietly, so just Morgana could hear. “Don’t put your feet down, hang on to me, lean when I lean, look where I look, and if the cops get too close, start shooting with those weapons. But let our boys take care of it for now. Now hang on!” Morgause snapped her visor shut and the bike roared to life. In her peripheral vision, Morgana registered marines mounting the other motorcycles.

“Morgana Pendragon,” the voice blared over the rumble of bike motors springing to life, “you have illegally deactivated your chip. Surrender yourself now!”

Morgana dug her nails into Morgause’s leather coat, clutching her stomach. Her legs shook where they bracketed Morgause’s body.

Morgause spun to her right, yelling something too muffled by her helmet for Morgana to understand, but pronouncing the words was clearly enough for her marines. Morgana twisted to watch the marines who had positioned themselves around the hospital entrance open fire on the mass of police cars, shooting out tires, knocking down officers.

Morgause gunned the engine, and Morgana’s shoulder slammed into her back as the bike reared, jumped the curb, and sped down the sidewalk, hugging the hospital building.

On either side of their bike, marines rode up, flanking them, holding steady with Morgause, close enough so Morgana could have leaned sideways and touched them. Gunfire flared up behind them. Morgause swerved over the sidewalk, marines maneuvering in tandem.

The pavement felt unsteady underneath them, and the tilting bike anything but stable. Inhaling in quick gulps, Morgana pressed herself against Morgause’s back, clawed into the leather at her waist, and tried to steady her breathing. It would not do to have a panic attack on the back of the bike, or to give in to the clutter in her mind and faint. Morgause’s back—not broad, but muscled, powerful under her leather and vest—was assurance enough for now.

From this angle, combat helmet digging into her temple, one cheek resting between Morgause’s shoulder blades, everything felt revved up, on speed. Morgana watched the rush of pavement, the tires of the two closest bikes, heard the popping of bullets—the sound slightly deadened by her helmet. Should she twist back and return fire? How far behind were the police cars? How close the bullets?

Then, for a split second, the pavement fell away. They were airborne. And almost as quickly as she had registered it, they landed with a bone-jarring jolt. Rushing over asphalt, they were crossing the main intersection by the hospital, Morgana realized, heading over the small bridge into center city. She lifted her head. Morgause had not been joking—she really intended to get all the way through the city and to New Jersey.

The sirens and gunfire on their tail persisted—jarring background noise. 

Sitting up straight, Morgana peered forward over Morgause’s shoulder, and saw a red light, a huddle of cars inching forward in the rain. Morgause leaned low over the handlebars and blew through the intersection. Morgana’s heartbeat drummed in her ears. _I trust her. I have to trust her_ , she chanted the mantra. On a four-lane bridge now, Morgause was weaving, slowing down as she zigzagged among honking cars, blasted by two lumbering, creaking buses, the marines on either side of them, the rain thudding steadily on Morgana’s combat helmet, her breathing stammering out of her. They bobbed, floated, went under, rose again in the sea of slick evening traffic that sputtered and fell away before them, loomed in front of their faces, and then receded just in the moment that Morgana was absolutely sure that they were going to sideswipe a car.

Just as they shot over the bridge, a loud bang exploded in her ear and she turned to the left in time to see the rider of a motorcycle flanking them flail, sink forward, momentarily lifeless over the handlebars. His bike rammed straight into the rider next to him. Morgana winced at the crash of metal on metal, at the skidding of the bikes across two lanes of traffic. Oncoming cars swerved, crunched into each other as they attempted to maneuver around the two motorcycles, wrenched into corkscrews and now lying smack in the middle of the road. 

The marines tumbled through the air, landing on the asphalt, standing up and jogging after Morgause while swinging their rifles. Morgana twisted, watched them kneel, take aim, and fire out the tires of two cop cars. 

Could Morgause communicate with them telepathically? 

Then the motorcycle under her cornered, and Morgana turned to face forward, to clutch at Morgause’s solidity. The whole bike tilted towards the road, Morgause leaning even farther out than the machine. _Lean when I lean, look where I look_ , she had said. Morgana pressed her chest to Morgause’s back, breathed against her and let herself angle away from her bike, her knee hovering just above the asphalt.

From behind them a chorus of sirens blared closer, cut with the staccato of gunshots. 

Morgause righted the bike; they were zooming down a narrow alley, skinny rowhouses and cobblestone flew by on either side. Morgana glanced back—three marines now accompanied them. They were down to only three. She could not see how many cops were on their tail.

Morgause ducked low over her handlebars, and Morgana kept herself glued tightly to her back. Swerving around a parked car, Morgause manipulated the heavy machine between their legs as though it were as light as a bicycle. 

A bullet hissed by them on the left, so close Morgana felt the blast of air as it passed. Another to their right. And then another. She heard sporadic return fire from the marines. She turned to watch, saw how they took aim behind them by staring in their rearview mirrors.

But the cops were gaining on them. Morgana thought of the armored truck that would transport her to New York. Morgause swept into another near-wipe-out turn; the road rose up to meet them and then heaved back into place. Morgana’s legs were quivering, shaking uncontrollably on the foot pegs. Left turn, navigate around a dumpster blocking the alley, right turn into pedestrian walkway, squeal by a barking dog, wet cobblestone bumping them into the air, speed across an intersection, slotting them into the only breath of space in cross-traffic, hurtle down a one-way street, startling a homeless man meandering across the road.

Behind them, sirens wailed closer.

Morgana thought of the laboratories buried in Camelot’s basements. She pushed her heart back down, out of her throat. She had to do something. Clinging to Morgause’s leather with her left hand, she used her right to fish out the pistol she had taken from the dead marine. 

Keeping her center of gravity low, she contorted herself. Looking behind her, she squinted through goggles streaked with rain. Two cop cars, there were only two cop cars left behind them. A gun lodged in a passenger-side window pointed at her. Two marines were left, as well, one to each side. They tilted and slid in sync with Morgause, like dancers in the rain. Surely Morgana could shoot out at least one of the cops. 

She flipped off the safety, sighted down the short barrel, clenched her arm to hold it steady, and aimed for the car’s tires. Squeezed the trigger once, twice, the kickback knocking her shoulder against Morgause’s back. The police weapon returned fire. She inhaled and got off another round.

The bike began to tilt under her and her torso swiveled back. She buried her fingers in the leather of Morgause’s jacket. The static in her mind roared. They were cornering again, sliding into a right-hand turn, onto a curved entrance ramp to a highway. 

Morgana blinked at the pair of headlights barreling towards them out of the growing darkness, at the horn, a solid wall of sound, approaching them.

No, an _exit_ ramp to a highway. 

What the hell was Morgause doing? Taking this to the clogged highway? To . . . to the Ben Franklin Bridge, Morgana realized with a shudder. The bridge that would take them to New Jersey, to the portal. The bridge that would prevent the state cops from following them, if only they could cross it. They had made it through center city, now they just had to make it just a little farther.

Morgause was crazy. 

She was batshit insane, driving the wrong way on an exit ramp on a motorcycle in the rain in the dark. 

Morgana felt a sharp shift in gear, the zooming gain in speed as the bike hurtled toward a crowded swarm of headlights. 

Her Kevlar vest was too tight, the goggles pressed too hard into her temples, the sodden fabric of the camo shirt rubbed too rough against her skin. The motorcycle was moving too fast, Morgana’s heart was beating too quickly. She clung to Morgause, to her body perched between Morgana’s thighs. 

She felt frozen there, stuck to Morgause like a barnacle, unable to let her go, as the motor under them accelerated, hurtling into oncoming traffic. Maybe she had never been able to let Morgause go, maybe all those times she had stared up at the ceiling, wishing Morgause dead had just been more lies Morgana had told herself. 

She locked her arms around Morgause’s waist. 

And then the world became a chaos of noise and movement. They were riding the shoulder of traffic, shooting uphill on the bridge, hugging the hard edge. To their right, cars buzzed by them, blared their horns, swerved into each other in the scramble to get away from the oncoming motorcycle. Collisions, bullets, sirens—Morgana could not parse the sounds anymore, so instead she focused on her own breathing, in and out, in and out. Morguase was leaning so low over her bike, she was practically plastered to the gas tank, her hands flicking the handlebars left and right in careful, precise movements. 

Knives of adrenaline spiked in Morgana’s blood. Bullets whizzed by them, close. Grimacing, she inhaled to steady herself and twisted back, gun at the ready. One more of their bikes had disappeared, a second tilted and toppled as a bullet impacted the rider. She watched as the marine dissolved into spiraling black swirls in the air and the bike glided on its side amid a flurry of sparks into a mass of cars. There were still two cop cars behind them; she pressed off a few useless shots.

It was down to Morgause’s bike and the two police cars. She spun forward, hugging low over Morgause. Traffic was thinning out, and Morgause picked up speed, ducking and swerving with the bike. 

Morgana swallowed hard when she peered forward over Morgause’s shoulder: Looming not far in front of them was a barricade of cars stretched across the crest of the bridge, lights—white, blue, red—blinding her, spiraling manically off the dark, solid structure of the bridge. Above them, two helicopters circled slowly, spotlights dancing over the road. 

Morgana felt the moment that Morgause recognized the trap, her whole body going rigid. Two cops behind them, a barricade in front, helicopters above. No way forward, no way back, no way through. 

Morgause’s head flicked to the left. Her blond hair streaming wet from under her black helmet slapped Morgana in the chest. Morgana clamped one hand around Morgause’s waist, the other locked around her own pistol. She would go down fighting, she told herself as she hissed inhales between chattering teeth.

The motorcycle wasn’t slowing, though. It barreled towards the impenetrable line of cop cars and vans and lights ahead of them. Morgana braced herself. _I trust her, I trust her_ , she chanted aloud between locked teeth. Because she did. And if this was how they went down, then so be it, this is how they would go down.

The road around them was empty of other cars now, just the lines of police vehicles thirty feet in front of them. Morgause edged them farther right, into the empty lanes, ungluing them from the shoulder. They were flying towards the wall of police cars and bullets, the sole target of what seemed like a whole army of guns. Morgause might as well have been wearing a bull’s eye on her chest. The number of bullets increased, fire mixed with the rain that still fell steadily down on them. 

Twenty feet, now, the barricade was just about twenty feet away. 

Something tore into Morgana’s upper-arm, like a burning bite of a massive insect burrowing deeper and deeper into her. She screamed, looked to see her combat shirt ripped open, blood, flesh exposed.

In front of her, Morgause jolted, and then, without warning, wrenched the bike hard to the left, sliding them into the shoulder, into the tall fence separating them from the bridge’s edge. Morgana braced herself for the collision—screaming, she was screaming with all the air she had left in her lungs—except the fence broke open, Morgause’s hand was outstretched, and she was yelling an indecipherable incantation at the top of her lungs. Like a gate, the fence swung open, letting them through into the air beyond the bridge.

For a wild second, Morgana wondered if this was the exit portal Morgause had mentioned. 

Then Morgause turned her head, hollered “Hold onto me!” above the noise of gunfire, and they were plummeting into nothing. 

Something crashed into Morgana’s lower back with the force of a sledgehammer, she screamed and lost hold of Morgause’s waist.

The bike, her anchor, fell away. Morgause’s hand flashed out and locked over Morgana’s. 

Feet pedaling uselessly under her, arm and back screaming in pain, Morgana’s awareness narrowed down to the clench of fingers where she connected to Morgause. They were flying; they were weightless. Morgause was shouting something in the old tongue, the inky water was rising up to meet them. No, no, this could not be it.

Morgause’s body twisted away from her, Morgana squeezed her eyes closed, threw her hands up. 

Back when Morgana was a teenager and summers meant months trapped with Arthur and Uther in the sprawling Pendragon mansion in Newport, they had often, by default, been forced into the company of Elena, the only daughter of Uther’s best friend, Godwyn, who had his own sprawling mansion just a twenty-minute drive across the island. Arthur complained about Elena, thought she was messy, silly, too loud for a girl, and that she smelled funny. 

But Morgana didn’t mind her much. She always knew the best climbing trees and swimming holes, and she never teased Morgana about the pills and injections she had to take with every meal. Unlike the Pendragon estate, which faced the Bay, Godwyn’s estate perched high on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. Sometimes late into the evenings, Godwyn and Uther would sit on the deck at Godwyn’s home guzzling wine and laughing a little too loudly, and Elena, Morgana, and Arthur would sneak off, following the sandy paths to the cliff. 

At first, the game was to dare each other to get closer and closer to the cliff, but Arthur had finally insisted they stop playing that game, seeing as Elena always won—at first she had won by hopping right to the edge, sitting down, swinging her feet in the air and smiling at the waves curling over the jagged rocks below. But one day Arthur beat her to it, sprinting out in front of her to plant himself where she always sat and swing his twelve-year old legs. He had grinned smugly at her. Not one to be outdone, Elena had returned his smug grin, stepped back, and peeled off her sundress, standing there in just panties and her undershirt. 

“Well I can do that, too, _puh-lease_ ,” Arthur had snarked at her, rolling his eyes and fumbling his arms out of his shirt sleeves. Elena had laughed outright, then.

“But can you do this?” 

She had turned away from them, heart-shaped face a determined grimace, and dashed towards the cliff. And right over it. Morgana had screamed and jumped forward as Elena’s body, gleaming pale against the dark night, had arced into a graceful swan dive and splashed into the water below.

Morgana had not been able to breathe as she and Arthur had tiptoed to the edge, craned their necks to peer into the black water, waiting for blood, her body, anything to come up. 

Eventually, Elena, whole and live, and sputtering with laughter had resurfaced. “You just have to know how to jump! And how to avoid the rocks!” She had hollered at them from far below, like it was quite an effective party trick she had just pulled, and not some death-defying stunt.

 _You just have to know how to jump_. As the water below Morgana took shape, rushed closer, unbidden, Elena’s words and the image of her—the curve of her body tilting towards the breakers, so small, yet so self-assured—echoed in Morgana’s mind.

Closed mouthed, Morgana smiled at the memory just as her body slammed into the water.  
Water was flooding her, pressing into her mouth, scurrying by the edges of her goggles, up her nose, ramming the fabric of her trousers against her crotch. She swallowed at least two gulping mouthfuls of it before she was able to seal her lips. Her guns, the stiff vest, her wet clothing, the very helmet on her head weighted down her stinging, smarting, aching body, and despite the goggles, all she could see around her was blackness. She squinted up, saw the sweep of a spotlight ripple over the surface not that far above her. 

She burned with her need for air. With what felt like the last surge of energy coursing through her, she angled her body up, kicked towards that barrier. She broke through it, piercing the air, sucking it down amidst mouthfuls of water. Circling her arms, kicking her legs, she was treading water, but only barely. All around her a stretch of choppy black water, the splash of rain. High above, the Ben Franklin Bridge reached for the heavens. Its green and red lights blinked silently.

“Morgana!” Morgause’s voice sounded from behind her. She turned towards it, relief unspooling inside her. She spotted the bobbing flash of blond hair and kicked out towards it. Then Morgause’s hands were around her waist and on her shoulder, tugging her weapons from their holsters. Deftly, her fingers unbuckled the chin strap that was cutting into Morgana’s throat, pulling off her helmet and goggles.

“You injured?” she asked softly between heaving breaths.

“Bullet to the arm, I think,” Morgana replied. 

“When?”

“As we fell? Something else, too? Something sharp in the back.”

“Did it cut through your vest? Is it a knife? Shit, you could be bleeding from two places.”

“I think that’s the least of our worries.” She clung to Morgause’s shoulders now—if she hung on to her, then she would not have to work so hard on her own, circling and kicking her arms and legs. “Are you injured, Morgause?”

“Yes. It’s nothing to be concerned about.” Morgause turned her head to peer into Morgana’s eyes. “You still with me?” 

Morgana dug her fingernails into Morgause’s shoulder and tried to focus her burring vision.

“Yes. I’m here.” 

The spotlights from helicopters were spinning around them, the fragmented lights of a disco ball, scanning the water. 

Morgause’s hands began fiddling with Morgana’s vest under the water. “We’ve got to move, and we need to get this heavy clothing off you. It’s going to be a long swim.”

“How far?” Morgana looked left and right. On each side lights shimmered on the shore from an impossible distance.

“All the way to the other side. I used up nearly all my magic cushioning that fall, otherwise I’d heal you straight out. But I’ve got to save what little magical energy I have left to shroud us from those spotlights. And then I’ll need some to pull us through the portal, which means I can’t so any healing or boosting right now. Nothing.”

“That’s okay, I . . .”

“No, it’s really not okay, but it’s what we’ve got to work with.”

Neither spoke as Morgause struggled with a clasp on Morgana’s kevlar vest.

“Your men?” Morgana asked.

“I ordered them to return to their realm after they’d stopped being useful, after they’d lost sight of us.”

“So just you and me.”

“Just us two. . . . You can do this, Morgana. You can make it.” Having finished removing Morgana’s vest, Morgause made short work of her combat shirt, yanking it off Morgana’s body, not concerned with buttons. Then she grabbed her leg, forced it up and untied and ripped off her combat boots. 

Morgana squirmed out of the shirt, freed her arms, felt only the cling of her hospital gown against her wet torso. Nothing had ever looked as far away as that shore did.

And so they swam, Morgause tight at her side, Morgana kicking towards the shore.

But she had no energy to muster; legs like bricks, body throbbing all-over like a day-old bruise, right tricep pinching and stinging, and drowsiness spiraling out from her mind to her belly, to her guts, she pushed forward one millimeter at a time.

Yells and sirens drifted towards them and away as the wind shifted; the cops were not giving up. But she could not give up either.

“Morgana, come on.”

“Maybe I could just . . . float here?” Turn on her back and just float. Perhaps even sleep, just a few minutes as the water rocked them home.

“Damn it, Morgana! Stay awake. You can’t pass out now.”

Her arm was practically jerked out of her socket. 

“I’m just going to float.” She rolled to her back, stared up at the rain falling directly into her. It was an odd angle.

“Okay, but kick while you’re floating!”

Morgana could barely feel her feet, but she tried to kick them, paddle like a duck, propel herself, move beyond the falling rain. Morgause’s hands were on her arms, tugging her forward.

She kicked and she kicked, and it became harder and harder to breathe, and water slurped into her mouth as she lay there on her back, propelling herself onwards, towards somewhere they had to go, and water lapped at her temples in small waves, and water fell into her eyes, until she couldn’t see, no sky, no bridge, no stars. When had the sun set? When had the rain started? Was she going to wake up to find Samantha standing over her, ready to hook Morgana up to her daily dosage of medication? Was she going to wake up to find herself still in prison? 

She kicked and her thighs, her lungs, her arms were aflame, all burningly heavy with exhaustion. There was nothing left to squeeze out of her muscles. But Morgause jerked on her arm and Morgana resumed kicking again. Paddle, kick, let the water carry your weight, make it to the shore, make it there. Cocooned in her water, Morgana could not sense direction anymore, but Morgause’s fingers interlocked with hers and held her steady. 

Time drifted away from her, all that she felt was the water on her cooling skin, Morgause’s hand in hers, the lightness in her mind, and the pulsating ache of her whole body.

“Morgana!” Morgause was slapping her face, slopping water between her lips. “Stay awake!”

She coughed and twisted, let her legs fall weightless under her. 

“We’re almost there, c’mon.”

She was right—far to their left a streetlight revealed an empty stretch of road. She pulled water out of her way with three, four, five breaststrokes, and then she recognized the dim shape hulking in front of them as land. Overhead, the base of the bridge loomed. They were directly under it. 

It was eerily quiet all around. No traffic on the bridge; no movement around its base. Morgause planted her hands on the piling—just a few feet above her head—and did a slow pull-up. Kneeing her way over the low curb, she tumbled onto the ground. She lay there on the brick path, dripping and panting in the dim twilight, and Morgana was struck by how very small she was. 

Morgause belly crawled to the edge of the water and reached one hand down for Morgana. “C’mon, then.” Even in the near-darkness, Morgana could hear the grin in her voice. 

They had made it. 

She latched onto her fingers yet one more time that evening and scraped and climbed her way up the piling.

They both collapsed on the ground. Morgause rolled towards her and crushed her to her, slick wet skin against wet skin, her lips mouthed over Morgana’s throat. “We made it,” Morgause panted into Morgana’s neck. “You and me.” 

Morgana opened her mouth to answer, but her teeth were rattling too loudly. Everything was going dim around the edges of her vision. 

“C’mon, let’s get you home,” Morgause said softly as she tripped, standing. Morgana accepted her hand up; pushing her aching body to stand was a slow process—she paused on all fours for a long moment, breathing in, breathing out, trying not to feel the pain that had become her entire existence. Finally she was standing, swaying like the water was still rocking inside her, leaning heavily on Morgause’s shoulder. 

Together, they stumbled forward, off the edge of the path towards the green-blue mammoth leg of the bridge. Morgause’s hand was outstretched as she chanted in a low tone. 

The words rushed over Morgana with warm familiarity and then a dark swirling spiral was gaping open in the side of the bridge. Morgause pressed her hand, turned to smile at her, eyes aglow with gold magic. Side by side, they stepped into the portal.

Morgana felt herself twisted apart, unwoven into a thousand filaments and refractions of light that expanded across the night sky. Reformed, pinned into a single body, alive with pain, she rolled once and landed on her back on something soft.

A click.

“Incoming. Diana Power and Donna Troy have arrived. Send immediate medical and magical assistance. Over.”

Another click.

Her mind receded to blackness.

///

**Author's Note:**

> 5000 characters is just not enough to express my deep gratitude and love for my amazing four betas: XsMoonshine, Riventhorn, Netgirl_y2k, Yllenk, and everyone else who made this fic happen. See my full acknolwedgments on [my DW post](http://fitz-y.dreamwidth.org/63507.html#cutid1).
> 
> Also check out the amazing [fanmix](http://ficofandalasia.livejournal.com/13276.html) and [podfic](http://ficofandalasia.livejournal.com/13418.html) by afterandalasia.
> 
> Author's Note: I have not abandoned this series, I just got a bit stuck, realized I had to re-write the 70k I had for Part II from a Morgause POV not a Morgana POV, and then started writing my first novel instead. This world is so involved, and takes up so much of my headspace, I can't seem to write it _and_ my novel at the same time. But it means a lot to me. So I promised myself, once the first draft of the novel is finished, I will take a three-month break from that world and come back to this one. I promise. ~~It may be long after Merlin fandom has become a dinosaur, though.~~


End file.
